


Diarkis

by miikkaa_xx



Category: Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Troy, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied Sexual Content, Language, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-20 16:25:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miikkaa_xx/pseuds/miikkaa_xx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thor, a Greek warrior, invades a temple and takes a Trojan priest for his own.</p><p>(or: the Troy!AU that no one wanted.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Divide

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is not based on the movie _Troy_ with Brad Pitt's fabulous hair, but watching it probably gives the general gist of the Trojan War. This fic will attempt to be historically accurate and follow the decade-long foray of the Greeks camping outside the walls of Troy until they win. References to mythology and people involved is mostly for world-building purposes rather than plot. Hope you enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for a long time now, I've wanted to write a Troy!AU since they are often my favourite type of AUs to read in fandom. This is what I was able to write out and there will be more coming soon, but for now, I hope you enjoy! :)
> 
>  **warnings:** violence, language, vague sexual content, implied Sif/Hogun and Volstagg/Fandral - both sexual and friendship. this work is unbeta'd - feel free to point out any errors in characterisation and writing!

-

The Greeks storm the beaches with adrenaline in their veins, feet in the sand, eyes burning under the sun, hitting and being hit with swords and arrows and spears. 

Thor is no different. He spins his battleaxe in his hand with a dexterity that comes with years of practice and buries it in a Trojan skull with as much remorse as stepping on an ant. He whirls and ducks, hearing the spear slice the air where his neck would have been and guts the man, seeing his insides spill across the sand. 

He feels hot and powerful – the sun in his veins, pushing him, the thundering beat of his heart in his ears, and Sif’s voice to his right, ‘Thor, behind you!’ and he’s stepping aside before bringing his axe down the muscled arm that tries to stab him, dismembering the man. 

From the corner of his vision, he can see Sif fighting with her custom speed, keeping low to the ground as she cuts her way through the crowds of Trojans that run at her. Her hair is long and braided down her back, swinging like a pendulum as she moves through the blood and bodies. 

The sun trembles and dips, touching the long stretch of ocean as the Greeks ram their metal weapons into the throats of the Trojans on their own beach, staining their sand with blood and death and ruin. Sif saves his life twice and Volstagg, lumbering and huge and dangerous, saves it once. Thor, in turn, greets them after the evening comes sweeping over the beach, handing them skins of wine brought by Odysseus and his crew. 

They drink as the sky turns violet and savour the cooling night air wash over their sweating bodies. The tents have been set against the shoreline and he sits with Sif and Volstagg to contemplate the high walls of Troy. 

‘They say there is a temple in the East, nestled in the wall. Want to get some loot?’ grins Volstagg. Sif laughs. 

‘Are there priests? Priestesses?’ 

Volstagg nods, ‘of course.’ 

‘Hm, I’d like to taste the gold and Trojan cock too, what about you, Thor?’ Sif looks at him over her wine skin. 

Thor grins, feral. ‘I have heard of a hammer in the temple, dropped from Mount Olympus itself, to be touched only by those blessed by the gods.’ 

‘Then it is settled,’ announces Sif, ‘at dawn, we set for the temple.’ 

Volstagg nods with her, taking a drink from the skin and Thor follows. The wind sweeps in the scent of perfumed Trojan flowers and blood on the beach and Thor takes it as a sign for victory. 

-

The dawn sun rises behind the walls of Troy, casting the ocean gold and bathes the long pillars framing the entrance in a beauty incomparable. Thor pushes back his hair from his eyes to take in the grand temple – long pillars to Apollo, stretching upwards into the early dawn sky. There are dozens of steps rising from the sand to the entrance, and the temple itself seems nestled half in the cliff side and half in the smoothed walls of Troy. 

Sif and Volstagg flank him with their own group of soldiers tagging along. Thor has brought his best from his island off the coast of Greece. His men (and women for Sif has brought her darling Valkyries) grasp their weapons with the assuredness of experience as they come up the steps following Thor. 

Then the slaughter begins. 

The few lost looking men and women stream out of the temple in confusion at the noise of the clanging spears and shields, and Thor instructs them to be killed. The true priests and priestesses would be the in the deeper chambers, lighting the daily incense for Apollo’s journey across the ocean skies. 

The temple is easy to take but there are many rooms. Thor instructs his men to split up, kill and loot all that is not the head priests or priestesses. Sif and Volstagg laugh through the killing, tearing up the armour-less mortals for their own gain and disappear into the long corridors. 

Only Thor is left amidst the noise and death. He takes to the East of the temple, slicing a Trojan boy’s stomach as he tries to run past Thor. Thor presses into the inside of the temple, feeling the gloom and darkness and cool air wrap around his limbs. 

There are numerous rooms he passes, but the hammer – blessed by the gods and obviously destined for Thor himself – should be in the very back, with the incense and prayers. He kills any errant man or woman that comes out shrieking in fear for he has no use for them, though he grabs one by the arm after searching for at least half an hour, his face a painting of fury as he snarls into the soft boy’s face, ‘where is the hammer?’ 

The boy screeches, blabbering on about, ‘down, down, by the main chamber, oh Apollo, save – ’ and Thor buries his axe into the boy’s neck, killing him and leaving him to drop loudly against the finely tiled floor, wrapped in his own blood. 

After walking down a long corridor, he finds stairs that descend and smells incense. Thor descends quickly down the spiraling staircase into a huge chamber with a golden statue of Apollo erected upon an altar at the far end. There is only one lone person there, dressed in white with dark hair flaring at the neck. 

Thor laughs to signal his entrance and watches the person drop their candle and turn, a sword at their hip. The person stands, tall and male, scowling. 

‘Who dares to come into a temple but to desecrate it?’ says the priest, his voice low and angry. Thor’s blood ignites at the threat. He wants to fight fight _fight_ – 

‘I come for the hammer given to this temple by the gods,’ announces Thor as he approaches the altar and, in turn, the priest. 

To his surprise, the priest laughs, ‘why? So you may wield it? None can, not in Troy. What makes the Greeks so different?’ 

‘The Greeks are blessed,’ replies Thor and he can see the green of the priest’s eyes, the sharp lines of the man’s cheekbones. The pallor of his skin, threatening to blend with the cotton robe he wears. 

’So they say,’ says the priest, and he slides his sword from the sheath on his hip in a fluid, experienced movement. ‘Come, warrior, prove to me that you are as blessed as you claim.’ 

Thor knows he is almost double the weight of this thin priest but his blood sings and he tears into the air with his battleaxe, ready to massacre the other. The priest is wily and quick, his sandaled feet whispering amongst the tiles as he dances around Thor, deflecting each bone-crushing attack by the axe away from his thin form. 

Thor lunges forward, ready to horizontally slice the man’s guts upon the tile, but the priest moves back, hasty, quick, to the right and attempts to shove the tip of his sword up into Thor’s ribs. Thor moves fast, the sword singing against the metal of the axe as he tries again to kill the priest. 

Their fight ends abruptly moments later – with the sound of a woman’s laughter echoing through the chamber, disrupting their bloodlust in one blow, the priest’s sword at Thor’s neck and Thor’s axe at the man’s abdomen. Thor looks up at the entrance and sees Sif dragging a dark-haired person by the neck towards Thor, a smile on her face, blood on her cheek and sword. 

‘Playing around, Thor?’ Thor takes a breath and moves swiftly away from the priest. ‘I thought you’d gone to find your god-hammer.’ 

‘I got distracted,’ he replies, and then gestures to the harried and bruised man she has in her grip. ‘Found your Trojan cock?’ 

‘So has Volstagg. Darling thing. Looks like you – golden-haired, blue-eyed. Smaller, of course.’ Her smile is feral. Her eyes drag across the priest, who is breathing heavily through his nose, his eyes wide and wary, trained on the dark-haired man. ‘Is that one yours? Pretty thing.’

Thor glances at the priest. He _is_ a pretty thing, but he wants the hammer, not the man guarding it. ‘You,’ pointing with his battleaxe, ‘take me to the hammer,’ he snarls. The priest raises his sword in retaliation, ready to fight. Sif growls. 

‘Put that piece of metal down, _boy_ , or I kill your priest-brother-whelp here,’ she snaps, holding her sword to the dark-haired man’s neck. The priest clenches his jaw, glancing at Sif then back at Thor. 

‘ _Loki_ ,’ groans the man weakly and the priest exhales heavily, dropping the sword with a clang. 

‘That’s a good boy,’ says Sif, voice gentle and warm, but there is steel underneath that Thor is sure everyone in the room can sense. Loki, the priest, turns on his heel, walking around the altar, and Thor follows. Sif remains unmoving, looking around the room. 

‘I’ll stay here. There is some loot I would want,’ she tells him, and Thor nods, before hurrying forth. 

There is a door nestled in the wall behind Apollo’s altar, made entirely of wood with intricate patterns carved into it. Loki pushes it open, revealing a small chamber behind it. It houses only two things – a cushion, royal purple with golden fringe, and a hammer on top of it, with a handle a bit too short and patterns carved along the metal. 

The smell is of electricity and ozone, nothing like the incense and wax of the room preceding it. Thor walks around the cushion in the middle of the tiled floor, his fingers not daring to touch the handle just yet for fear of electrocution or death. The gods are moody ones, he knows. 

‘Take it then,’ says Loki, his eyes burning with a righteous rage. ‘Go on, blessed by the gods, take it and wield it. _If you can_.’ 

‘You test me, priest,’ growls Thor, but his hand inches forward, fingers shaping around the leather of the handle, the tip of it digging into the soft flesh of his palm. He shivers, before tightening his grip and then _pulling_.

There is a beat of silence. 

Then – laughter. 

‘Come on then, blessed warrior,’ mocks Loki, as Thor strains to wrench the hammer from its cushion, but it is no use. He uses both arms but still, the thing remains unmoving, as if carved from the ground itself. If it wasn’t for the fact that the cushion was there, Thor would think it _was indeed_ carved of stone ascended from the depths of Hades itself. 

‘You have conjured it, priest,’ snarls Thor, letting go, his temper flaring. Loki shrugs, his smirk all white-teeth. 

‘I have done nothing. You are simply incompetent, it seems.’ 

‘I am _nothing_ if not Ares’ beloved, Zeus’ favourite,’ announces Thor, before he circles around the hammer, approaching the priest. Loki does not budge an inch, his mirth still evident on his face. Thor finds the whole thing infuriating and he grabs Loki’s arm, fingers tight and unyielding, until the amusement slides off the priest. 

‘What do you mean to do,’ says Loki, low, eyes wide in alarm and anger. 

Thor snarls, low in his throat. ‘If I cannot have the hammer, I’ll simply take _you_ , blessed priest.’ 

-

Loki does not come quietly nor peacefully. He struggles, screaming, wrenching, clawing for his freedom, but Thor has more strength on him. He ties the priest’s wrists behind his back with the same hemp that Sif tied her priest with. 

She laughs at Loki’s struggles, murmuring compliments into the hair of her own hostage’s ear of how beautifully quiet he is. Thor is almost envious of the other’s supposed docility, but even Loki loses the energy to do anything as he is thrown across Thor’s shoulder and carried out under the blazing sun for all the world to see. 

At some point, Thor has gagged him and tied his ankles together too, and only his green eyes show the supreme displeasure he feels at the situation before Thor tosses him onto the cushions in his tent. 

‘Be still and calm, priest, and this will not be as painful for you as you might think,’ warns Thor, before leaving the tent to join his men and women outside. Sif and Volstagg are trading jewels and necklaces over a firepit, contemplating the authenticity. He sees Sif bite on a gold band before grinning and Thor knows it’s authentic. The Trojans would not spare expense on their temple to Apollo. 

‘Left the wildcat in your tent?’ teases the woman. 

‘There must be a way they moved the hammer into the room,’ says Thor, ‘and the priest will know.’ 

‘And how will you get it out of him?’ asks Volstagg. 

Thor thinks of violence but it is not worth it if the other cannot fight back. He craves bloodlust when battling, not battering a tied up prisoner. He will ask for now and see if Loki will tell him anything. Already Loki must see the disadvantage of being stubborn in an enemy camp. 

‘Words, Volstagg, surely you’ve used them once or twice?’ he says, teasing, and Volstagg laughs in turn. 

The night steals over them soon enough and the conversation dies down as Sif glances over her shoulder to the large tent where Agamemnon resides. 

‘The war council meets tonight,’ she says, biting into the hank of charred fish the Greeks have caught. 

‘The Trojans will not like us desecrating their beloved temple,’ sighs Volstagg, ‘they should simply yield now instead of sending their sons to certain death.’ 

‘Where is the glory in that, friend?’ asks Sif, ‘I wish to have my name written in records – Sif and her Valkyries conquer at Troy. Perhaps we even take Hector – their most beloved son of all.’ 

‘Better be quick, then,’ replies Volstagg, ‘all the Greeks are vying for his blood I have heard. Anyway, I have no interest in beating Hector. Give me gold and food and let me go home.’ 

‘Nay, I side with Sif on this matter,’ says Thor, ‘give me glory and give me the gods’ hammer.’ 

-

He enters his tent only to be attacked. 

Loki has cut his bonds on the swords lying in Thor’s tent, and now lunges with one in his hand, aiming straight for the blonde man’s throat. Thor ducks, a large hand slamming into Loki’s stomach instinctively. 

Loki, of course, doubles over, winded, and Thor grabs the man’s wrists, tripping him onto the ground and pinning him down, straddling the priest’s abdomen. Loki snarls, teeth white and feral, eyes glinting fiercely in the dim firelight that leaks through the flap of the tent. 

‘You test me, priest,’ snaps Thor. 

‘Let me go, you heathen oaf,’ retorts Loki. 

‘Tell me the secret to the hammer and I shall.’ 

The demand makes Loki spit and the saliva lands onto Thor’s cheek. ‘ _Make me_.’ 

His blood sings in anger and Thor holds Loki’s wrists in one hand while the other grabs the sword Loki had dropped and brings it to the man’s throat. ‘I don’t want to hurt you, priest,’ he says, low, muscles straining from holding back on the urge of violence. 

‘Why not? I, for one, hope you die on the sands of this beach, you filth,’ says Loki, mouth curling up into a smirk. 

‘And you will have to bear being here until you give me what I want.’ 

‘I should trust someone like _you_ on that?’ laughs out Loki scornfully. 

Thor rolls his eyes. ‘What have I done to incite such hatred?’ 

The question seems to stun Loki, who goes still in surprise before his face twists into something fierce and brutal, fury written in the green of his eyes. ‘You desecrated my _home_ , you have _massacred_ all whom I know, and now, you have the audacity to ask for my aid in _ruining_ the last thing I have left.’ 

Thor rears at the intensity, grip slackening on the man’s wrists. Loki wrenches his arms loose, turning his face away to stare out the flap of the tent. There is a slice of sand and sky and the burning torchlight outside, and Thor thinks that perhaps Loki must regret not sneaking out instead of staying and killing Thor. Then again, with the offence Thor has caused, perhaps not. 

Thor rolls off him, gathering the various weapons and placing them in the corner. Loki has not moved from his back, seeming dead for all intents and purposes. Eventually, Thor gestures towards the weapons and says, ‘do not try attacking me again. Escape if you so wish.’ 

He leaves to grab some food for Loki and returns only a few minutes later to see Loki washing his face using the basin of water Thor keeps in the tent. He tosses the meat and skin of wine towards the priest and sits upon his furs, dragging his battleaxe onto his lap to sharpen. 

Loki eats silently, finishing it all and emptying the skin. Thor watches him, curious to see what he would do – like a fascinating pet. The priest clenches his jaw, before standing up. There is no reaction and Loki takes a step forward, towards the entrance, his eyes on Thor. 

Thor smiles at him indulgently. 

Loki knows he’s being goaded and stomps rather noisily towards the flap, leaving the tent in a huff. Thor waits ten minutes before he hears the telltale catcalls and whistles. There is laughter and growling, and Thor knows Loki’s been captured and is retaliating in that wildcat way of his. 

He grabs his battleaxe and leaves the tent, going but a bit past his own soldiers’ camp where there is a group huddled around some hissing, spitting thing. He breaches the initial ring of men and sees one of them holding Loki’s wrist behind his back, a knife at the priest’s jugular. 

‘Calm yourself, priest,’ says the man, smiling with danger in his eyes, ‘we’re all curious if the rumours are true – that the Trojans cut the cocks off their pretty priests.’ 

Loki scowls. ‘And we Trojans also cut the cocks off those who put it in the wrong place, scum.’ 

‘And where is that?’ croons the man, but Thor intervenes. 

‘Thank you for catching him,’ says Thor, easy, ‘but he is mine, last I checked.’ 

The men of the group glance at him, sizing up his broad shoulders and battleaxe in his hand. 

‘Who are you?’ asks the man. 

‘The one who led the escapade into the temple,’ he replies, twirling the battleaxe in his hand in warning, ‘My name is Thor, captain of Volstagg’s sons and Sif’s Valkyries. Now, hand me the priest.’ 

There is a beat of silence, where Thor can feel the bloodlust sing in white-hot pleasure for an instant, before the man letting go of Loki, giving him a nudge forward, quells it. Loki exhales noisily, walking towards Thor and taking his place by his side. 

‘Should keep him tied up,’ says the man, ‘before he runs again.’ 

‘Duly noted, soldier,’ grins Thor, swinging an arm around Loki’s shoulders and bodily guiding him out of the rapidly dispersing ring back into the familiar camp. 

‘You knew that would happen,’ says Loki, his shoulders tense under Thor’s grip. ‘You knew I would be caught, beaten and raped, you sick man.’ 

‘Yes,’ says Thor, ‘and I also knew I could get you back before that happened. Do you see where you are now, priest? Give me the hammer and I will take you back to Troy without a hair on your head touched.’ 

Loki is silent as he slips back into the tent, Thor following. The battleaxe is dropped beside the entrance and he strips himself of his clothes entirely, lying down on the furs to sleep. Loki sits in the far corner, shadowed in darkness, with his knees drawn up to his chest. 

‘You may sleep beside me,’ invites Thor, half teasing, but gets no response. He settles into the furs, closing his eyes, back turned towards the entrance as he faces the direction Loki sits. He wonders, later, if he half-imagines the voice that comes, soft. 

‘My name is Loki Laufeysson, not priest.’ 

‘Aye, and I am Thor Odinsson,’ murmurs Thor in turn, ‘now sleep.’ 

-

He wakes to sunlight streaming inside the tent and Sif sitting beside him on his bed, hair loose and dripping over her shoulders like ink. 

‘Enjoy Trojan cock that much?’ asks Thor, stretching, his fingers catching on the loose strands of her hair. She grins at him. 

‘Very. His name is Hogun. Quiet boy. Serves me well.’ She rolls her shoulders and he can see the armor she has on, a sword at her hip. 

‘We prepare for battle then?’ 

‘Aye, the best yet. The Trojans have sent out a force in retaliation, armed in gold blessed by Apollo himself.’ 

Thor stifles a yawn, propping himself up and taking a cursory glance around the tent. Loki is sleeping, curled up, in the corner of the tent, still dressed in his dirty, dusted white robes. Sif follows his gaze. 

‘You haven’t even touched him,’ she remarks. ‘Volstagg at least befriended his.’ 

‘Really, now?’ asks Thor in surprise. He dresses as she speaks, pulling on his clothes and armor, hanging a sword at his hip and grabbing the handle of his axe. 

‘Yes, the priest-boy’s name is Fandral and he has great love for Ithaca’s wine. And grapes as well. They have bonded much over meat and drink. Fandral takes to his captivity like a cat to trickery.’ 

‘I _do_ know his name is Loki,’ tries Thor, but it is weak and Sif laughs. 

‘Let the wildcat go, you only took him because you were upset at the time.’ 

Thor sighs, picking up a fur from the pile. ‘Yes, but he has the secret to the gods’ hammer.’ 

Sif shrugs, but watches as he drapes a fur over Loki’s form. She clicks her tongue and leaves, saying, ‘be ready soon, for the golden Trojans march.’

Thor waves her away and hunches down, fingers touching Loki’s cheek lightly. It takes a few moments before Loki shivers into awareness, eyes blinking open blearily before alarm floods his face, hand shooting out to curl tightly around Thor’s wrist, other hand coming to slam his heel against Thor’s chin.

Thor’s head flies back, feeling his teeth sink into the flesh of his lip until it splits and there are drops of blood rolling down his chin. He backs off immediately, preparing for a fight, the taste of copper on his tongue as he feels anticipation of battle spread through his body.

‘What are you doing,’ snaps Loki, snatching back his hands to his chest in preparation to strike once more. 

‘Waking you,’ replies Thor, licking his mouth. ‘I leave for the day’s battle. Will you stay or shall I tie you down, Loki?’ 

Loki jerks his head at the sound of his name, eyes green and intent. He licks his mouth. ‘I see. Do try your best to die, then, _Thor_.’ 

Thor tilts his head, contemplating the words, before standing up and leaving. 

-

The slaughter is deliriously hot and pleasure-filled. Thor kills with bloodlust singing in his veins, letting himself lose it all into the wash of blood and adrenaline that threads its way through his consciousness. 

He swings his axe and slices a stomach open, a neck, a leg, an arm – deconstructing the human body into pieces as the gold armor glints underneath the sun, threatening to blind him. The battle rages on and around him, Sif’s laughter and Volstagg’s booming grunts, the screeching of the Valkyries’ swords against metal and the loud yells of the soldier-sons beside them. 

The battle, of course, ends much too quickly for Thor, whose blood does not calm and he feels like his head has been stuffed in cotton – all he wants is an outlet of this energy still pumping through him, some claim for more blood or perhaps sex. 

Sif and Volstagg sense his mood and leave him, letting the evening sun graze the edges of the sea behind their camp as Thor staggers into his tent, wanting nothing more but to be left alone if he cannot rip anyone’s throat out now. 

Yet, of course, there is Loki in his tent, dressed in fresh linens found from god knows where, and he’s drinking from a skin of wine as he wraps cloth around his wrists in some form of bandage, possibly for the chafing caused from the hemp bonds and being tossed around in turn. 

When Thor enters the tent, Loki immediately tenses and he can feel the darkness that seems to roll of Thor – all danger and promise of pain if he doesn’t remove himself from the vicinity. Thor growls low in his throat, warning, and pushes open the flap of the tent wide, an obvious signal for Loki to leave. 

Immediately, Loki stands and hurries out of the tent, wariness written on each inch of his face, before Thor is left alone in the darkness. He strips of his clothes, dropping his axe with a thud, and sits on his furs, body tense, waiting for his blood to stop singing. 

The sky darkens and torches lit. There is noise outside, but Thor can only hear the thunder of his heartbeat, pumping through him like horses' hoof beats, like Zeus’ laughter, like Ares’ footsteps, like like _like_ – 

-

Dawn slides over the sand through the tent. Thor shivers into awareness, feeling boneless and exhausted, his muscles cramping from being tensed for so long. Somehow, his adrenaline had calmed down through the night and he had dropped to sleep. 

His tent is empty and there is a moment of clarity – Loki is not here; he must have left and wandered into the camp where Thor was not present to claim him as his own – he scrambles into his clothes, strapping his belts around his waist and grabbing a sword. 

When he steps outside under Apollo’s sun, it is early enough that not many are out wandering. Immediately, he takes to one end of his camp, finding the large tent where Volstagg would sleep. He opens the flap and steps inside without preamble, smelling wine and dust. 

Volstagg is awake, a fur draped over his shoulders in some attempt to cover his bareness, as he stirs wine into a bowl, mixing it with spices. There is a body curled up on the pile of furs, also bare, golden-haired, the length of his back untouched with cut or bruise. 

‘You’re back,’ remarks Volstagg, tasting his mixture and smiling at him. Thor casts another look around the tent but the priest is not there. ‘We did not notice any claiming of a runaway slave in the camps nearby. The wildcat might be in Sif’s tent, Thor.’ 

‘ _Must be_ ,’ corrects Thor roughly. A last glance over the sleeping blonde reminds him of the relationship already formed between his friends and their captives, and he wonders if he is even cut out for such a thing with such a temperamental priest. 

Quickly, he crosses across his camp to the other tent – their three tents creating a triangle, with Thor’s nearest to Troy’s walls, Volstagg’s on the side and Sif’s closest to the shoreline where she may bathe with her Valkyries whenever she wants. 

Once more, he enters through the flap without preamble, letting the oncoming dawn light seep into the darkness, lit by candles. Sif lies on her back, bare, legs parted, and Thor can see a dark haired head moving between them, wet sounds and heavy breathing. 

For a chilling, jealous moment, he thinks the man between Sif’s legs is Loki but Sif moans out ‘Hogun’ appreciatively, shivering out a quiet, rolling orgasm, before she smiles at Thor standing beside the fur pile. 

‘You’re looking better,’ she says, propping herself up on her elbows. Hogun sits beside Sif, picking an apricot from a basket by his feet and biting into it, looking anywhere that is not his new mistress or Thor. 

‘Where is Loki?’ 

Sif eyes him for a moment, before muffling laughter with her hand. Thor feels irritated, growling, before a voice interrupts. ‘Your observation skills need work, warrior.’ 

Loki slides out of the shadows, dressed in the same clean, white robes, his hair swept back to showcase his sharp cheekbones, his green eyes – gemstones glittering with mockery and wariness. Thor can see how Loki sidesteps the warrior, getting closer to Hogun and Sif, vying for protection in case Thor truly does snap. 

‘I’ve come to take you back to my tent,’ says Thor, making no movement to approach Loki – who seems on edge. 

‘And if I prefer the company of my priest-brother and the Lady Sif?’ 

‘Then you stay after you’ve told me how to use the hammer,’ says Thor patiently. ‘We have been over this before. Your secret in exchange for your freedom.’ 

‘Perhaps, just perhaps, dear warrior Thor,’ says Loki slowly, ‘I do not have the secret to the hammer with me here.’ 

Thor contemplates him with a long look, wavering between the potential of it all being a lie or the truth. It would not be past a wildcat to fake injury in order to cut open an enemy. Thor knows. Thor has fought the wild – he is warrior, bone and blood. 

‘Swear it, then. With your oaths, your rites and your blood.’ 

He tosses the sword in his hand between them, daring for Loki to pick it up and attack. The priest licks his mouth, bending down and grasping the handle. There is a pause – silent and tense where Sif’s movements are punctuated by the whisper of skin on fur as she prepares to defend Thor – before Loki is shooting forward, blade in hand. 

Thor curses, dodging the first strike by rolling onto the sand. Sif’s tent is filled with shorter blades and he grabs one to defend himself against the second strike. The adrenaline in the priest’s body allows him to press all his body’s strength against where their swords meet and Thor is unable to push him off or move away, stuck in a standstill. 

‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ says Sif, sleek and dangerous as she stands naked behind Loki, a dagger to his neck. ‘Back off, priest.’ 

Loki’s nose flares with the breath he sucks in and drops the blade on the sand to his side. Thor also drops his own blade and finds rope in the tent before tying Loki’s wrists together and tugging on it with the long piece of rope that served as a leash. 

‘Let go, Sif,’ says Thor, voice low, and Sif retreats, dropping her dagger on her fur bed. Hogun is quiet and frozen, jaw tight, as he watches the scene, and Thor does not miss the fruit knife by his ankle. Irritably, he tugs at the rope to Loki’s wrists, ‘will you come or will I have to tie your feet as well and carry you?’ 

Loki scowls but follows him out of the tent. It is still early morning and not many witness Thor leading the priest back to his own tent. Once they step into its shadowed depths, Thor undoes the knot and lets the rope pool over the sand. Loki wrings his wrists, easing the chafing, and does not look the warrior in the eye. 

‘This is a war,’ says Thor, voice cool. ‘I kill Trojans, and your people kill Greeks.’ Loki stays obstinately silent, walking to the basin to dip his hands into the water. ‘You hate me because I killed all that you’ve known.’ 

At that, Loki flicks his gaze up, mouth twisted downwards. ‘You’re not as dull as previously thought, then.’ 

‘I have had fellow soldiers die, but I do not hold grudges,’ says Thor, sitting on the fur bed, watching him, ‘I do not seek revenge on whoever it is that kills them – all is fair. Hades will greet them in the fields of Elysian.’ 

Loki glares at him. ‘My temple was not at war. My deceased are the innocent, the young, the untouched.’ 

‘And my soldiers were not? One goes into war at the same time as priesthood – thirteen, fourteen, haven’t even touched themselves much less another.’ 

‘Do you want my affection? My camaraderie?’ snarls Loki, ‘is this what you are trying to say – that I should forgive you for _all is fair_?’ 

‘Your forgiveness is of your concern; your thirst of vengeance is not.’ 

‘You should die for killing the young priests and priestesses,’ says Loki with conviction. ‘Did you rape them too? Ruin their livelihood inside and out?’ 

Thor curls his fingers into the fur pelt as he tries to temper his anger. ‘I did not.’ 

‘You say these things as if I should trust you,’ snaps Loki. 

‘Your trust is of your concern, Loki,’ says Thor, ‘and you may try to kill me but if you succeed, what then, priest?’ 

‘I will have revenge and satisfaction.’ 

‘And the last two survivors will be dead.’ 

Loki pauses his hand washing, head bowed as he speaks, ‘what do you mean?’ 

‘Sif and Volstagg will kill your last two friends and you will be alone – the sole survivor. If they do not kill you as well.’ Thor’s words are steady and clear. ‘I can offer you something.’ The priest is motionless and silent. ‘Take me to the temple, give me the hammer, and I will give you your friends.’ 

Loki raises his head, eyes slit in suspicion. ‘You would let all three of us live even after we’ve been here? You would return us to Troy?’ 

Thor picks up a fruit knife on his bed and slices a long cut across his forearm, ‘I swear on my blood. Once the hammer is received unto me, I shall return you and your two friends to your temple and Troy.’ 

‘Swear that you will protect us also,’ says Loki sharply. ‘Swear that we will return to Troy alive.’ 

Thor admires the priest’s thinking – Loki will have his way. ‘Protection, too.’ He tosses the blood-stained knife towards Loki and waits. 

Loki appraises the knife before lifting it and placing it on his arm. ‘Like this?’ he mocks, but slides it across his skin nonetheless and blood spills onto the blade. He throws it on the dusty sand between them. ‘Tonight, warrior.’ 

‘Tonight, then, priest,’ agrees Thor. 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright-y, thought I might explain some references I dropped along this chapter! :)
> 
> The Gods - split themselves up on one side or the other:  
>  _the Greek side:_ Zeus (king of the gods, god of sky; though he said he was neutral; pressured by his wife Hera to support the Greeks anyway)  
>  _the Trojan side:_ Ares (god of war), Apollo (god of sun)
> 
>  _The Greeks:_ Agamemnon (the would-be King of all the states of Greece), Odysseus (the best strategist), Achilles (the best warrior)  
>  _The Trojans:_ Priam (the king of Troy), Hector (Priam's son; the prince of Troy; the best warrior)


	2. Unite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warnings** : violence, vague sexual content, language. please feel free to point out any errors in writing/characterisaton! :)

They pick their way through the tents by moonlight and firelight from various torches and pits in the sand. Thor ducks and weaves past the various watches around the camp, a hand wrapped around Loki’s thin wrist, pulling him along swiftly and silently across the sand.

The edges of the camp soon disappear behind them, blending with the long, dark horizon of the ocean, and Thor can soon see the rising pillars of the temple, the sand slip-sliding over the tiled floors and smoothed stairs that lead up to the entrance.

Quickly, him and Loki duck inside, their sandaled feet whispering over the floor, running past the doors and various open rooms filled with cloth and food and candles. Loki takes the lead this time – slipping down halls and through chambers.

It takes entire minutes weaving through the mammoth maze of the temple. Vaguely, Thor realizes that the fact that he had found his way yesterday morning had been sheer luck – it was much too big of a temple for any outsider to navigate.

It is eerily conspicuous how there are only bloodstains and overturned tables and tapestries that line the walls but no bodies. Thor knows they had left the dead behind – dozens upon dozens of the faithful citizenry and worshipful that had simply been caught in the brutal crossfire of war.

‘Your dead have vanished,’ he remarks. Loki does not pause in his walking as he replies, ‘there were great smoke clouds above Troy while you were out battling yesterday. The dead have been blessed and burned as they should be.’ Thor nods absently, feeling the vastness of the building go on for endless twists and turns – feeling so much more empty than he would have ever imagined it.

Soon enough, Loki hurries down the stairs, Thor following. The priest pushes open the doors, revealing nothing except pitch-black darkness, faint squares of light lining the tops of the walls where the moonlight shines past the windows.

‘Should be a torch to the side,’ murmurs Loki, feeling up the wall beside him, fingers trying to find the catch of the stand where a torch would be. Thor knows dawn soon approaches – the summer nights here are shorter, and seasons threaten to shift under their feet.

He hears the sounds of Loki dragging the torch and feels a hand touching Thor’s side, fingers skimming over his ribs. ‘Do you have a flint?’

Thor shakes his head, ‘none.’

Loki sighs irritably, and Thor hears him dig through his own robes. Eventually, there is a pleased sound in the back of the priest’s throat and they both see sparks appear suddenly in the darkness. The torch blazes into a fire, coating Loki’s skin in orange, blinding Thor for a few moments.

When his eyes finally adjust, his breath hitches, and even Loki seems shocked, for out of the darkness, a dozen Trojan soldiers have appeared – dressed in darkened leather and fur, spears and swords in hand.

‘High Priest Loki, you have escaped from the camp,’ says one of them, almost in wonder. Loki jerks his head to the side, finding the speaker, the surprise etched on his face melting away into a calm, poised expression of expectance.

‘You have waited for any escaped captives here, then?’ he asks, and Thor sees the other soldiers spread and circle around them. He breathes deep, readies the axe in his hand.

‘Who is this man?’ The soldiers appraise Thor, suspicion lighting their eyes.

‘A Greek who aided my escape,’ replies Loki easily. ‘He realized the error of fighting against the impenetrable Trojan wall.’

The suspicion eases but does not disappear. Thor can feel the linen bandage wrapped tightly around his arm – a reminder of his blood oath sworn to Loki. He would protect the priest, in exchange for the hammer, and if that meant slaughtering these Trojan fools, then he would.

However, Loki gestures for Thor to stand down with a flick of his wrist, a look in his eye. Thor licks his bottom lip before relaxing his grip on the handle of his axe and holding it loosely against his side.

‘I must resume my duties to Apollo. I would have him with me.’ The unsaid dismissal is clear, and the priest holds his head up high while sliding past the ring of soldiers towards the upturned altar. The looting must not have stopped after Thor had left. The soldiers slink out of the main chamber, disappearing into the shadows before their steps fade away.

‘How long will this take?’ asks Thor, keeping his voice low. Loki gives the torch to him, freeing his hands in order to lift up the table and place it back on its four legs, brushing away the dust. He remains silent and ignores Thor as he drags up the cloth and ornaments, some chipped and broken from the fall, and dutifully places them back onto the altar in their rightful place.

Apollo looms in front of them, his statue untouched. Desecrate a temple but never harm the avatar of a god, remembers Thor. This is a lesson warriors lands and seas over have learned – often from experience, for the gods are not afraid to be vindictive and curse those who would harm them.

Somehow, Loki obtains a few broken sticks of incense lying on the floor and lights them, bowing his head in silent prayer as the smoking tendrils wrap around the calves of the god. Finally, it is clear that Loki is done restoring the altar to a superficial echo of what it was before.

It is the first time Thor has returned to a place he has plundered. They are one-time events, where he must never face the consequences – running with gold, prizes, and endless treasures, only leaving behind legends of terror and glory. The scene afterwards of hollow buildings and a people attempting to pick themselves up afterwards – that is not something that he has ever pondered upon.

Yet now, he can see how looting this place has left it more than simply physically empty and broken. There is a lack of divinity here, no familiar scent other than dust and sweat, and Apollo’s sightless stone gaze upon the empty air where his subjects should be, where the singing should ring high and loud and prayers reach the roofs.

‘I desecrate your home,’ he says quietly, almost ashamed.

‘Descrate _d_. It is too late now.’ There is a sigh hidden in Loki’s voice.

Dawn light filters through the high windows of Apollo’s temple, rolling down the long walls and onto the floor. The air warms and Thor sees how the statue seems to shiver into life, becoming less of a marble structure and ease into the brightening orange glow.

Then it all ends.

There is a horn – a war horn, though it is too dim to know whose. Thor starts, looking at the staircase warily, waiting for streams of soldiers to come through and kill them. The Trojans must have begun an attack, or perhaps it was the Greeks.

Thor grasps Loki’s arm, voice urgent and low. ‘Do what you must. I have sworn to protect you.’

Loki stares at him, green eyes wide in surprise, before he nods and slips of out of Thor’s hold. He grabs a few incense sticks and disappears behind Apollo’s feet. There is a sound of a door opening and, soon after, murmuring and the smell of incense.

It all cuts off when soldiers start coming down the staircase, yelling, ‘The Trojans are commencing to all come back into the city, a siege is imminent, all priests and priestesses must retreat behind the walls!’

They pause when they see Thor standing in front of the altar, clothed in foreign clothes and holding a battleaxe, braids in his hair like that of a Greek, his body like that of a warrior.

The leader of the soldiers gestures to circle the room as he approaches Thor warily.

‘You’re not Trojan.’

Thor laughs, ‘indeed, I am not. But there is a Trojan behind me and you must get through me first.’

‘So be it.’ The leader flicks his hand and the soldiers close in on him, ready to be slaughtered. Thor kills one of them with a downward blow of his axe. The skin parts easily below his blade and blood starts to gush, flowing over the temple tiles, and a moment of brief regret hits him – _I desecrate your home_ – before he moves on to the next one.

The bloodlust takes him as it always does – a blessing from Ares. Ares loves indiscriminately and takes both Greeks and Trojans as his warrior-lovers, igniting their blood hot with want of either pleasure or pain, debasing a human to a mere animal wreck that is far more dangerous.

Thor has long accepted this blessing from the war god and he embraces it in the fight – learning the moves of those he fights, sometimes hindered by heavy armor or armed with brutal strength. He cuts through the rings of men that surround him, thinking not of Loki but how deliriously wonderful a battle is.

‘I’ve got him!’ The ring of soldiers immediately retreat from Thor as one of their own holds a knife to Loki’s neck. The soldier who has captured him has long, deep scratches on his neck and cheek and is limping, though he is in better shape than the bruised and battered priest.

‘That is Head Priest Loki,’ snaps one of the soldiers. ‘Let him go or else Apollo will side with the Greeks.’

The soldier goes pale and drops his blade immediately, clattering loudly on the floor as Loki wrenches himself away and scowls. Thor turns his head and sees more soldiers pouring in. He is outnumbered if he tries to fight them he knows. The Trojans wouldn’t look to spare his life either. He was at the mercy of the Trojans, and worse of all – to Loki, a scorned priest. Thor clenches his jaw.

Loki drops his gaze to the five dead men on the floor and traces his lips with his tongue. ‘It seems the Greek wishes for blood.’

‘Head Priest, there is no one but you here, and we have need of Apollo’s blessings, it is time to prepare for the siege,’ says the same soldier who scolded the other. ‘Let us kill the Greek here and leave.’

‘No,’ says Loki, his face disconcertingly blank. Thor swallows, waiting for the order for a capture and painful torture, or something along those lines. ‘We shall mark this day whence a Trojan had the higher ground than a Greek. We will spare him and give him back to his soldiers.’

The soldiers shift on their feet – evidently uncomfortable with this order, but Loki is already walking towards the exit. ‘Well, hurry it up then!’

The soldiers let Thor stand and walk stiffly, following Loki’s steps across the chamber and up the stairs. They hold Thor at sword-point, leading him through the temple until they reach the exit. Once Thor steps into the bright sunlight, his captors retreat back into the shadows and when the warrior looks back, Loki is nowhere to be seen.

Thor steps into the hot sand, feeling the sun’s blaze, and waits for the Greek soldiers to begin bathing in the ocean before he sneaks his way back into the camp and lies in the cool shadow of his tent. _I owe him_ , he thinks, slowly, unable to comprehend it for a moment. _He has saved my life and now I owe him_.

Later, the news of the barred walls of Troy arrive in the camp, and the war council announces the commencement of a siege. Summer wavers in the sky; Sif and Volstagg share a skin of wine with him, lament the loss of the wildcat, and wait.

-

‘Hogun stays with you, still?’ asks Thor as they break their fast mid-morning. Sif spits out the pit of her peach and smiles.

‘Aye, he seems content enough, though he did sulk when told that Loki had escaped.’ She shrugs. ‘He has taken to captivity as any other would. He will escape with Fandral soon enough. It is only a matter of time, and they talk to each other often.’

‘It has been three months,’ remarks Thor, leaning against the sand. ‘You have kept your companions for long.’

‘Where else would they go if we happen to be sicken of them?’ says Sif, ‘anyway, I am pleased with Hogun still.’

‘And is he with you?’ teases Thor.

Sif takes the effort to seem affronted. ‘You question my abilities to take care of a slave but you are willing to let me guard your back? _Really_ , captain.’

He laughs, leaning back against his arms as he looks around, at the farming they have commenced on the beach. If they were to sit here, waiting for reinforcements as other states gathered their armies, they had to feed themselves somehow. ‘I, for one, sicken of this waiting.’

‘We will wait much longer, I fear,’ sighs Volstagg over a spit of meat, ‘it is the kings, not soldiers, that are the picky ones. They wish for a bit more than glory if they are to send their armies to the walls of Troy. There have been talks of it taking a year.’

‘A year on this godforsaken beach.’ Sif makes a face. ‘Well, at least the battling does not end. Shall we harass another Trojan ally today, Thor?’

‘I hear Achilles takes a force. I mean to join him,’ replies Thor, ‘I feel restless.’

Volstagg glances up at the wall of Troy. ‘I think we all do.’

-

Achilles heads to the west of Troy and arrives at a farming town to let the bloodbath commence. Thor and his soldiers excel in destroying the armed men who try to fight against them and soak in the blood and guts of their enemy. The battle lasts an entire day. There are no survivors.

As a threat, Achilles takes one man prisoner and drags him along the trodden soil till they have reached the Thracian beach where the Greek soldiers farm and sleep. Thor watches as the blonde soldier, arrogant and ruthless and supposedly immortal, takes the terrified prisoner and makes him stand in front of the Trojan wall.

There is some yelling. Thor cares not what it is. Perhaps threats, perhaps a warning – ‘let us through to your city and you will not die as a pig like this man’ – and the man does die as described. Achilles kicks him in the gut, laughing, playing as a cat would a mouse.

That’s when they appear at the top of the wall – one of Priam’s daughters and a priest.

Achilles grabs the prisoner by the throat, his gaze ever transfixed on the pair, before he slides out his knife and slits the other’s throat, letting him choke on his blood as he drops into the sand with a thud.

Thor is staring too – frozen – not at the beauty of Priam’s child. She _is_ beautiful, Thor can’t deny; her dark, dark hair draped down her back, her white robes clean flattering and her skin a sun-blessed bronze.

She is accompanied by Loki – tall, straight-backed, dressed in white, looking as if he were some impartial god as he stared at the war-mongering soldiers below. The wildcat seems untouchable.

‘Thor,’ starts Volstagg, his gaze caught up in Loki gazing down from the wall as well.

‘I shall follow him,’ says Thor, ‘take the soldiers back to camp. Tell Sif.’

‘Aye,’ nods Volstagg, and Thor begins walking against the flow of the soldiers, back into the direction of the town they have just ruined. The wall is still in sight, though it begins to curve away, following the circumference of the Trojan city. Loki begins to walk too, evidently sighting Thor in the crowd. Priam’s daughter jerks her head up at the sudden movement beside her, but Loki exchanges a few words and she nods, looking down into the sand at Achilles.

Loki walks along the wall and Thor follows, moving around any brush or rocks that spring up in his path, his eyes still on the priest’s white robes. The sun begins to waver in the sky, sinking down, its circumference just beginning to touch the edge of the horizon. They walk for a time together, eyes on each other, though Thor cannot discern any specific details of Loki’s face at this distance – he is like a half-finished painting made up of globs of white, of black, of tan.

Once the sun is a quarter-way sunk into the horizon, Loki stops walking. He makes a gesture with his hand, as if to say stop, before bending over and disappearing along the edges of the wall. Thor waits, and is rewarded minutes later with Loki appearing once more and casually throwing a rock at him.

It lands just to his side, and Thor clenches his jaw in surprise, watching Loki. The priest makes an impatient gesture with his hand, pointing at the rock, and the warrior goes to look for it in the brush. He retrieves it quickly enough – it is a large rock, just smaller than his fist, with a strip of cloth tied around it.

Thor unties the fabric, smoothing it out between his hands, and thanks himself for being literate before attempting to discern the messy writing that Loki has obviously smeared on with mud and stick.

_Temple. Dawn._

Loki is watching him, waiting, and Thor will not yell lest he reveal his position to his soldiers and compromise himself as someone who communicates with the enemy. All he does is wave once – affirmative – and Loki waves once back, before continuing along his walk along the wall which curves away from Thor. And so, fabric clutched in hand, Thor heads back to camp.

-

‘It is a trap,’ says Volstagg immediately, and Sif nods.

‘The wildcat may have spared you once but he will not do it again. He probably has some plan to slay you now that he knows you are still here.’

Thor chews thoughtfully on his fried fish. ‘The temple has been abandoned both by the Trojans and Greeks. There is no soldier that lurks there now. Not that our scouts have seen.’

‘There are still chambers and shadows in temples,’ says Volstagg, ‘and a wily, wildcat of a priest that knows his way around a blade if Sif is to be believed.’

‘I saw that fight months ago, Thor,’ she adds, ‘he is capable of injuring you if he caught you off-guard.’

Snapping out of his contemplation, Thor speaks, voice loud and brisk. ‘It is too late. I have appealed to be a scout to Odysseus and have been allowed. I shall leave at dawn and return at latest by mid-morning.’ A pause – and he softens, his voice going low. ‘I shall be wary, friends. I shall not die at the hands of him.’

-

He dresses in the cool, blue gaze of the night where but a hint of purple-pink sunrise slides on the dawn air. The sea is calm and quiet, washing against the shore as he strides out of camp, waving to the night watches and jogging out through the sand.

The temple comes into view soon enough – still a proud structure in the dawn gloom. Thor slows, taking in the sight, a hand on the hilt of his knife. He watches the shadows spill over the stairs from the entrance, and waits. Nothing appears, and Thor resolves himself, walking up, listening to his sandals sigh against the stone

He slips inside, keeping his back to the walls as he moves through the dark of the temple. Eventually, his eyes adjust, though by not much, and he continues, listening for any sound. There comes none but the whistle of the sea wind.

Thor does not dare speak, hidden in the shadows, but he hears it then – a muffled, ‘Greek!’ The voice comes again, ‘Greek warrior!’ and Thor responds, his voice hoarse with anticipation, ‘Trojan priest!’

‘Fool, come closer, into the temple,’ says the voice, and it is now clearly Loki’s. Thor drifts towards it, sliding his knife out soundlessly and holding it in front of him. He expects an attack, yet he gets none as he moves through the dark before a candle’s flame flickers in front of him.

Thor stares at it, almost disbelieving, and Loki emerges behind the candle, dressed in robes coloured maroon with a black hemp sash around his waist. His face is unimpressed and cool, but Thor does not let down the knife.

‘I come alone,’ says Loki, exasperated.

‘As do I, but it is not me who would lie,’ replies Thor evenly.

‘There is no one here,’ snaps the man, waving his candle around, casting the flame’s light over the walls, revealing nothing but pale, smooth stone and pillars.

Thor feels the confusion setting in. ‘If not to kill me, why have you called me?’

‘To see if you would come, for one,’ says Loki, dragging his gaze down Thor, ‘you have brought only a knife. Perhaps I should be thankful.’

‘Do you wish for me to capture you again?’ suggests Thor, mouth twisted in a half-smile.

‘You owe me your life,’ says Loki promptly, silencing the other. ‘I have come to have you pay that debt.’ Thor remains silent, attentive. ‘I want my priests back. Give me Hogun and Fandral.

‘We had a deal months before, Loki,’ says Thor, ‘the priests come when I have the hammer.’

There is a moment where Loki’s eyes widen, his lips parting in shock, before his expression crumples entirely and transforms into outrage. ‘ _Bastard_! I gave you _life_ , you must return them to me!’

‘As of now, they are not mine to give,’ replies the other. ‘Hogun is Sif’s. Fandral, Volstagg’s.’

‘I don’t care,’ says Loki, ‘you have a debt to me – you _owe_ me their lives. You are Sif and Volstagg’s leader, their captain. Surely they submit to you.’

‘Prizes of war are for those who claim them, not anyone else, whether King or thrall.’

‘We are not _prizes_!’ snaps Loki, so fierce that Thor raises his hand instinctively to defend himself. The priest snorts. ‘So even a Greek can feel fear.’

‘And even a Trojan can run,’ says Thor lowly in warning.

The other looks away, jaw clenched tight, and a minute passes by in an uneasy silence. ‘If you cannot do as I ask, I have no use for you.’

Thor can feel the chances of obtaining the hammer slip away and he struggles with the words to bring it back, watching Loki begin to turn, the flame of the candle flickering over his pale face that is lined with frustration.

‘A life for a life,’ says the warrior, ‘Hogun for my life; Fandral for the hammer.’

It is enough to have Loki give pause, half-turned, the faint light bringing his cheekbones in sharp relief. ‘You owe me more than that,’ snarls Loki. ‘You know this, warrior.’

‘Do we have a deal?’ presses Thor.

The winds shift in the temple, bringing in a burst of sea-air from the outside and it makes the hair on Thor’s arms stand at the coolness. He wonders when the rest of camp will awaken and realizes he must return soon, and perhaps Loki does too, for his face goes blank and he blows out the candle entirely – only the white of his eyes visible in the gloom.

‘Bring both to me in a month to this day. At moonrise. I have preparations I must commence.’

-

‘You did not die,’ praises Volstagg in the evening when Thor finally returns back to his tent. He had skipped breakfast and lunch with the troops to walk along the beach and help with the farming and watering of the crops they have begun to grow in order to sustain the siege.

Thor has contemplated how to breach the subject of returning the two slave-priests with his friends but he flounders at the words entirely. He cannot ask for them to give up a symbol of their power. The others might see them weak for having their slaves run free into the night – a lack of discipline, an absence of control.

There is precedence he can speak of – taking slaves from the various towns, cities, and camps they have battled and looted is not uncommon. Volstagg has preferred affection for women with curves and men that are still lean. The only women Sif will lay with are her Valkyries, but for men, it is the quiet ones she takes.

As for Thor, he prefers his partners – men and women – smaller than him in width and height, though he has no issue if the opportunity to take his second and third-in-commands to bed ever arose. Till now, they have not, but he makes it no matter – all three of them are sexual beings, and Thor understands this.

The fact of the matter is that Volstagg, Sif, and him would let them go soon afterwards. Pleasure slaves were taken for a night, the longest being a week when Volstagg had fallen for a woman with skin as black as night and a voice that would put birds to shame. She had died of a fever on a boat when they had crossed the Aegean in search of new employment. If Thor closes his eyes, he can remember the burn of incense, the repetitive sound of Volstagg carving out her figure from wood, her body as it floated away on the sea behind them.

Yet it has been three months, and neither seem intent on letting go of their prizes. _We are not_ prizes _!_ Loki’s voice echoes through his head – piercing and loud. What were they then if not treasures with a mouth to feed and please? Be as it may, he still would have to convince his friends to let the priest-slaves go, but the words die in his mouth.

Sitting now in Volstagg’s tent, the red of the sunset sliding through the open flaps, Thor feels as if he can only force a smile and nod to his friend’s conversation.

‘Ah, but he is quiet,’ says Sif around a bite of her fish. ‘Did the wildcat bite your tongue? Refused to let it go until you obeyed?’

Thor laughs softly, drinking deep from his wine cup. In the corner of the tent are Fandral and Hogun, who perk up from Loki’s nickname, their soft conversation stilling with hunks of bread and fish forgotten in their hands.

‘Loki was adamant on one thing,’ admits Thor after a pause. There is no other way to approach this, he decides. Subtlety was not his strong suite and his friends would appreciate a frank appraisal rather than hidden implications. ‘He wishes for the return of his friends – Hogun and Fandral.’

The two slaves do not move, do not breathe. Sif tilts her head; her eyes narrow in some emotion that Thor is too intimidated to decipher. Volstagg snorts, chewing through his bread before replying.

‘What do you mean ‘return’? Through the crack in the Trojan wall where they will run to in the dead of night? Be practical, Thor.’

Thor shrugs. ‘Loki has offered to whisk them away one month from today in the night. Moonrise.’

Sif finishes her fish and places down her skewer, wiping her hands over her fur pelt on her thighs. ‘So you have figured it all out, have you, Thor?’

‘No, that is Loki. I have done nothing but listen.’

‘You lie,’ she replies – quick as a snake and just as ruthless.

‘Sif,’ tries Thor, wanting to calm her temper before it bursts.

Sif will have none of his words, as he would expect and he cannot stem the tide that flows from her lips. ‘You have bargained for your hammer, have you not? You have given him two lives – and you think it is enough to gain the damned weapon and your own glory by debasing our own.’

He flinches. ‘This is not _at all_ – ’

She stands. ‘You have lost your wildcat, and now you want my own glory for yourself. You are my captain, Thor, and I will wage a thousand wars with you, but I will not amuse your own greedy delusions in exchange of my own pride.’

Thor sits before her, tongue still in his mouth, and something like anger and shame slide into his stomach, curdling the warm buzz of the wine.

‘Sif,’ murmurs Volstagg, ‘that was undue – ’

‘I apologize, Volstagg, I was not aware that you were willing to trade Fandral for Thor’s personal _empty-handed glory_ ,’ she says stiffly, and beckons for Hogun to stand as they exit the tent altogether. The uneasy silence settles between them for a minute.

‘Ah, that went badly,’ says Volstagg finally and Thor stares into his cup, nodding absently.

‘I shall… retire,’ says the warrior softly, draining his wine and placing the cup before his friend. Thor retreats to his own tent, loosening his armor and letting it clatter loudly all over the dusty ground. At first he is angry – wants to fight Sif, ram his battle-axe against her sword, weave through her myriad of movements and slam a fist into her stomach, winding her, breaking her stride, making her realize that he is the better, the wiser, the superior –

_– your own greedy delusions in exchange for my own pride –_

Thor reigns in his temper, breathing deep. No, it would only be counterproductive to fight Sif on this point. Make both their bloods rise and let enmity run deep between them. Even Volstagg, though silent, seemed unwilling to part with Fandral, and Thor would not fight with his third-in-command either.

 _– willing to trade Fandral for Thor’s personal_ empty-handed glory _–_

He drags a hand down his face. He could steal them away from Sif and Volstagg in the night, but the morning after they would know and strike mutiny against their captain and Thor would be unable to hold them in the wrong.

‘Empty-handed glory,’ muses Thor, and he knows it is true. There is no guarantee that Loki will give him anything. Who is Thor to assume that his trade will have results, that Loki will be loyal to his word, that there is anything between them that holds them to these promises?

-

There is farming to be done, as there always seems to be.

The war council murmurs on the speed of the reinforcements from Greece and watch Apollo lead the sunrise each time, his rays pummeling against the crops their soldiers attempt to grow. Life continues on – slowly and drearily. Achilles peers up the wall for a glance of Priam’s dark-haired Polyxena, Odysseus mourns over his dwindling supply of wine, and Agamemnon searches for cracks in the Trojan wall.

All of this does not concern Thor, who carries buckets of water from the Simois river north of their camp to the fields, and contemplates how to face Sif and Volstagg during the evening. The rest of the soldiers busy themselves with other duties: gathering wood to make weapons such as arrows and spears to place in reserve, digging into the ground to form wells and scouting out the rest of the landscape around the city.

He has thought long over this matter. Only Loki’s persistent shout seems to reverberate through his skull under the pounding rays of Apollo’s sun. If slaves are not prizes, thinks Thor, frustrated, hard-hearted, then what else can they be? He can only imagine Loki spitting and snarling at him – words unintelligible, attempting to answer Thor’s query.

It comes to him slowly over the course of the day. He thinks on Fandral and his apparent joy found in food and drink and comfort. Volstagg spoils him with beautiful jewelry, gold, furs, wines from the many islands that dot themselves around Greece, and Fandral savours the attention and the material all the same. What Volstagg takes from him is evident enough on the marks over Fandral’s neck, collarbone, hips, and thighs, and Thor knows Volstagg only took from those who are willing.

Hogun is a matter entirely. Hogun is literate, quiet, and learns knife tricks in the half-lit shadows of Sif’s tent over the last few months. Thor knows almost nothing of him – only that he speaks with but Sif and Fandral. Sif coddles him in her own way – harsh and sweet, gifting him with weapons and whatever manuscripts she can trade off with the others. He is kept for her only and the other Valkyries do not approach their leader’s pet.

Then there is Loki – wildcat, Trojan, priest. Stubborn and willful and skillfully intelligent in the two days that he was with Thor. Though their acquaintance had been brief, there is something of mark that Loki has left on him that he cannot erase. Seeing him once more after a long period of time only illustrates what Thor has known – that the priest of the hammer is just as inexplicable as the weapon itself.

And Thor suddenly understands. Perhaps he does not understand as well as he would like to, but there is something of an inkling of empathy that blooms in his chest – for soldiers, priests, and slaves. When night falls, Thor heads back to camp.

Navigating the various shelters erected on his end of the beach, he eventually comes to Sif’s tent by the seashore and dips his head past the half-closed flaps, intent on asking her to come join him and Volstagg for dinner, when he finds her sitting and murmuring into Hogun’s ear, his head in her lap as he lies on his side over her fur bed.

She looks up, her face cast orange from the various lamps lit throughout the tent, her dark hair loose and spilling over her shoulders, and she presses a hand against Hogun’s forehead in indication that he would not move.

‘Captain,’ she greets him coolly.

‘Sif, my second-in-command,’ replies Thor, and she gestures for him to enter.

He arranges himself cross-legged across from her and watches her fingers pet through Hogun’s dark hair over and over again. He has not often seen her soft like this – face tucked into calm consideration, eyes half-lidded with her hair draped over her shoulders. Thor takes a moment to take it in, understanding vaguely that this comfort has arisen in part from the man curled up next to her.

‘What would you like?’ Sif asks after a moment of silence, her gaze heavy. Thor takes a breath, flicking his gaze downwards in order to watch the dust on the ground beneath his feet.

‘It seems… I was in the wrong,’ he tells her slowly, feeling the words stick to his throat, unwilling to come out. His pride quails within him – eager to prove itself against her, but he swallows it down.

She snorts. ‘I know, Thor.’

He clenches his jaw, trying to ignore the flare of anger over her response. ‘I have no guarantees that Loki will give me the hammer, only that I will give him Fandral and Hogun.’

Her fingers pause in Hogun’s hair, resting her hand lightly against his head. Her voice is still calm and cool, but he hears the thrum of steel, of danger and warning under it all. ‘You mean to take what is mine away from me by force. Volstagg too.’

‘I had considered it,’ admits Thor wearily, the truth exposed for her consideration. ‘But you would not serve me after, would you?’

‘No,’ replies Sif without pause.

‘Then I humbly request the return of Loki Laufeysson’s priest-brothers, specifically Hogun, from you,’ says Thor – clear and concise, head bowing down once to her before he straightens. It is not a particularly harsh blow to his pride for he considers Sif his equal in many ways.

However, Thor still feels a pang of pleasure when he realizes he takes her by surprise by his action – the way Sif’s eyes widen, her mouth parting in a rush of breath. She is deadly still and Hogun does not stop staring wide-eyed in anticipation at Thor, trying to predict the outcome, a hint of hope somewhere in the curve of his mouth.

‘You would _beg_ ,’ states Sif flatly after a long, silent minute.

‘I have asked, I have not _begged_ ,’ he growls at her, temper rising.

‘You value the wildcat and your hammer that much?’

‘I _respect you_ that much,’ says Thor roughly. He looks over at Hogun, catching his gaze and holding it, though the priest’s muscles tense in preparation to fly or fight. ‘You would like to return to your friend and to your city, would you not?’

Sif glances down at Hogun, who merely nods, face blank.

‘Do you see, Sif?’ he says, grasping at the words he knows he must have. ‘He has a home, a family, he has done his time here on this beach with you, surrounded by your home and your company. Let him go.’ This is what he understands anyway – perhaps Loki will spit and snarl that Thor is wrong in every which way and then explain the true meaning of his words. However, it is an attempt, and his sincerity should hold weight with Sif

Her voice is soft when she speaks, and there is curiosity in her dark eyes. ‘And who told you that?’

He shrugs, holding her gaze. ‘Loki.’

She bites the inside of her cheek in contemplation, fingers resuming their petting through Hogun’s hair. The cool evening air passes through the tent flaps and makes the lamps flicker, and Thor is too tired to decipher how Sif’s face changes with every slip of shadow over her skin.

It takes an entire minute – stretched out and endless – before Sif looks towards him, head tilted. ‘I would not hear these words from you three months ago, I am sure.’ Thor does not deign to respond – they both know she is right. ‘My arrogant captain laying down his pride to illustrate his humanity, who knew?’ She cups Hogun’s cheek, stroking her thumb over the sharp angle of bone, and looks down at him warmly. ‘Thor has brought up a valid point. It has been too long here on this godforsaken Thracian beach. You’ve done well with your time here.’ Her eyes flick up to Thor, ‘By next month, then?’

Struck with surprise at her acquiesce, Thor breathes out a ‘yes’, but anything else he was about to say is interrupted by a flurry of motion of Hogun straightening up from Sif’s lap, staring at her, mouth in a firm flat line as if to test her promise.

Sif turns to Thor, ‘leave us, if you will,’ and he does, quickly, not allowing himself the opportunity to ask for assurance on her agreement to return Hogun.

-

Volstagg is surprisingly easy to convince once told that Sif has agreed to Thor’s request.

Thor gifts them with newly forged blades and arrows made of ancient wood, gold and jewels from his own loot he has gathered over the past months on his raids, and the last of his wine he has brought from their island off the coast of Greece.

They agree again, just to assure him of their response, and Thor suspects it is motivated at least from the frequency of the marks that appear on their necks, their swollen mouths, the ease of their movements. It amuses him, just a bit, how effective sex is when it is received as thanks instead of payment.

-

The days burn bright.

Thor joins Achilles at noonday each time to peer up the wall for a glimpse of dark hair, white robes, a glimmer of assurance but finds none. Preparations for the slaves’ return commence in a hurry. They understand how the various night watches and scouts operate and begin to plan their avoidance as it soon becomes clear that they are too big a group to navigate through sheer instinct and sense alone.

The Trojan wall remains unyielding. Crops grow and weapons are gathered around Troy instead. The seasons shift – winds become cool and the humidity eases off as autumn sets in. The war council tent is always loud with argument or debate and Agamemnon waits upon any favours from the gods but receives none.

It takes a while, but the date eventually comes upon them. A month passes. It was time to pay a debt.

-

They carry nothing but blades and the bare minimum of armor as they duck behind tents and weave through the camps to the east of the beach. Thor has practice navigating these darkened, intertwined trails past the night fires and lookouts and scouts – and he leads them with but whispers and gestures.

The only setback that arises is when Volstagg stumbles once in the camp and accidentally wakes a scout, but Sif quickly resolves the problem by knocking said scout unconscious from behind. It is enough to rush them even more and they soon clear the perimeter of sleeping soldiers. The sand feels cool against their feet, no noise accompanying them but the tide of the ocean, their own breathing, and Hogun and Fandral stumbling steps behind their trained, silent ones as they cross the beach.

Soon, the temple is in sight – still a formidable structure when bathed in nothing but moonlight. Its pillars rise high up in the air and the first steps Thor takes are hesitant and quiet, wary of a divinity that they have scorned here in this place. It is the priests this time that take the lead – walking up the steps with confidence and steadiness and Thor follows suite, Volstagg and Sif by his side.

Once inside, Fandral and Hogun skate their fingers along the wall before they find half-melted wax candles and ask for a flint. Volstagg volunteers his own, and a moment later there is a light to lead them through the maze of corridors inside.

‘Where will your wildcat meet us?’ asks Sif, and Thor struggles to answer, for he knows he never received an answer.

‘Here,’ he says finally, peering into the darkness.

They wait in the gloom, trying to listen for any movements, and Thor wonders if the moon has fully risen in the sky yet. Minutes pass in aching slowness and he can feel the others become restless. This could have been an ambush, but why plan such one for only three Greeks was a question yet to be answered.

Half an hour passes and Fandral whispers fervently into Hogun’s ear, worry etched on their faces, fingers going tight around the candles that threaten to melt over their fingers and douse the small flame.

Thor takes a breath, smells the sea air, imagines the night and _knows_ just then – at the flutter of wind against his skin – a disruption around him –

‘Loki,’ he says into the gloom, voice breaking the silence with a boom.

Loki emerges into the light the two priests hold in their hands. He looks gaunt, exhausted, but pleased and passes hunks of bread from a pouch at his waist to his friends. Thor watches the three of them convene in a hushed conversation for a moment before breaking apart.

Hogun and Fandral bow – Loki merely nods. ‘Thank you for your supposed hospitality,’ drawls Loki, ‘I will take my friends back to their family and friends now. It has been a pleasure dealing with honest folk – moreso when Greek.’ The sheer amount of sarcasm that drips from his voice evidently irritates Sif.

‘You threaten to tread on my pride, boy,’ she warns and only receives a quirk of Loki’s mouth in return.

‘My apologies. You may return to camp. Thor, follow me.’

Thor does not expect the request and he glances over at Volstagg and Sif, who are busy watching Loki with a wary gaze.

‘We know how to get here,’ says Volstagg lowly. ‘If you do not bring him back…’

‘He is your captain, have confidence,’ sighs Loki, seemingly tired of the conversation and turns around, wrapping his hands over the elbows of his friends to lead them further into the temple without a shadow of a glance back at Thor. It irks the warrior.

‘I will return,’ he says to Sif and Volstagg before darting behind the priests and hears nothing but the whispers of his friends’ sandals behind him as they leave the temple.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another part gone by, and some character development too, wow~
> 
> let me just thank you all for leaving such enthusiastic feedback! it means so much to know you're all enjoying this fic! :D hopefully, I can get an update again soon as well. again, thank you!
> 
> Notes: _Polyxena:_ one of Priam's many daughters, it is said that Achilles was smitten at first sight with her and wished to marry her. More of their myth to come later on. :)


	3. Create

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warnings:** language, violence, slight bloody imagery. please feel free to point out any errors in writing/characterisaton!

Loki takes him to directions unknown – the lack of light and abundance of symmetry around him making it difficult to discern neither where Thor is going nor where he is at present. The other priests seem at ease with the journey, abandoning their candles for lamps they have found in hidden nooks and crannies around the long corridors, making Thor wonder vaguely what other loot him and his soldiers may have missed. 

They come to a shadowed chamber in a corner of a long hallway. Loki knocks at the door with strange pauses in between – the tempo an evident pattern. The door – plain and wooden as it is – creaks open and from inside emerges two men and a woman, bowing low to Loki before beckoning Fandral and Hogun forward. 

With a hushed command, Loki steps away from his friends, who go forward to the other priests and they disappear into the dark of the room, the door creaking shut behind the darkening tunic robes. There is a shift in the air but it is the only evidence they were ever here. It makes Thor’s skin crawl – the secretiveness of this entire occasion, the way each robed man and woman seem as impermanent as the waves of the ocean. 

After a long moment, the priest turns towards him. ‘They have left to Troy,’ says Loki to him, his voice bland. It catches at Thor’s ear and he can’t help but quirk a smile. 

‘You’re happy.’ 

Loki raises his eyebrows expectantly. ‘I suppose the return of my friends after four months of capture is the cause for a smile or two.’ The cutting sarcasm receives a snort of Thor’s laughter. The warrior watches the other who seems almost relaxed and content. It is a good look on him, thinks Thor. 

‘And now,’ ventures Thor carefully, unwilling to ignite Loki’s temper and break the ease between them. 

‘Yes.’ As expected, the priest’s voice hardens. ‘Your payment of one hammer blessed by the gods. Come.’ He beckons to Thor with a flick of his wrist and begins to stride back down the hallway and take a sharp left into an adjoining corridor. 

-

Thor is beginning to loathe the intertwining walkways inside the temple – feeling like a mouse in a maze all the while being tormented by the same diamond mosaic pattern on the floor and the plain stone walls that flank them. At least, inside the temple, the air is cool and no wind cuts through their attire as it would on the outside. The humidity sticks however, draping itself over the back of Thor’s neck and laying fingers of sweat over his skin, but it is something he is getting used to. Even Trojan weather is not so different from Greek. 

Loki gets them to the familiar chamber below ground – Apollo looking striking as always standing before them, his nudeness carved lovingly from marble. No sunlight drapes itself over the god, only the pale flickering flame of Loki’s lamplight as they cross the tile – now covered in sand and dust from disuse. They quickly circle around the god’s statue to the small chamber behind him. Thor pushes open the brown wooden door, the intricate carvings digging into the palm of his hand and making him grimace, and reveals the circular chamber behind it with the hammer standing on its head, shaft up and beckoning for anyone to try and lift it. 

‘Perhaps you’d like to grasp it once more, just for posterity?’ mocks Loki, knowing full well it will not budge an inch even if Thor pulled will all his strength. 

‘Start whatever rites you need,’ grumbles Thor, standing back as Loki arranges himself before the hammer, kneeling with the lamp to his side and pulling out various incense sticks from the same pouch on his hips. He lights them with a flint and lets the smoke curl up into the air, teasing at Thor’s nostrils. Though he finds the smell pleasant enough, Thor does not enjoy the sneezing that comes afterwards and stifles it to the best of his ability. His mother used to light such things frequently. 

Sniffling quietly to himself, he watches as the priest continues with his preparations – a flask of wine and a cup, small gold trinkets and jewels, a few coins, and a hank of wheat. Placing them before the hammer, Loki takes a deep breath, inhaling the smoke before glancing over at Thor. 

‘I would appreciate silence as I commune with the gods,’ he says flatly. 

‘As you wish,’ replies Thor, closing the door of the circular chamber and sitting with his back against it as he watches the firelight flicker over the priest – sending licks of orange and yellow over the pale skin. Perhaps it is the pallor of the skin or some priest trick but it fascinates Thor how Loki seems to blend in with whatever shadow-light that is cast over him. 

Loki pays him no mind and inhales the smoke again before beginning a prayer under his breath as he pours wine into the cup and drinks from it. The prayer continues, long and arduous and boring, as Loki waves the wheat and the jewels and the money through the hair in circles, beckoning the gods with sacrifice and piety. 

Thor begins to nod off – the night late, the incense pleasant, Loki’s deep voice low enough to lull him. He blinks languidly as Loki’s voice drops into silence, his face tilted upwards, mouth parted for breath, lips dry for talking this long – it feels like minutes that had dragged onto years. It has probably been an hour but there is no discernible way of telling with no window to see the night sky. Or perhaps dawn light. Either way, time passes, the prayer continues, and Thor naps quietly as Loki watches beneath his eyelids for his gods. 

It only takes a few seconds for the gods to show their reply – and when they do, it is with flair and danger. Thor only smells the heaviness of ozone in the air before he hears crackles and snaps above his head. Glancing at Loki, whose eyes are still closed, mouth moving in silent prayer, Thor slides his grip onto the handle of his dagger and glances upwards. It is a mistake. A bolt of lightning crashes through the ceiling of the chamber – no, that wasn’t quite right, it was _made_ from the air at the top of the chamber – and slams into the shaft of the hammer, letting off sparks inordinately bright. 

Thor yells out in alarm, hand outstretched to grab Loki away from the charred hammer, but the priest has moved to the other side of the room inhumanly fast, back pressed against the wood, his eyes hazy, mouth open, voice suddenly thunderous. 

‘Thor, son of Odin, blessed by the Greeks, Ares’ lover, Zeus’ champion,’ says Loki to him, but he is stumbling, leaning against the wall for support as the voice issues from his throat – too loud to be human, to infused with the sounds of a tempest to be anything of a mortal. 

Thor grits his teeth, body tense, waiting, crouched to kill or run – he doesn’t quite know himself. 

‘You – ’ here, Loki presses his back against the wooden wall, face twisted in pain as his mouth works against his own volition. ‘ – have been deemed unworthy for this hammer – but, if you prove yourself as a warrior, as a man, as a mortal above mortality,’ here Loki coughs, a hand clawing at his throat in agony, ‘you will receive my greatest weapon –‘ a sputtering cough, ‘ _Mjolnir_.’ 

With that, Loki hunches over, heaving, dropping to his knees with a loud crack as blood appears at the corners of his lips, and faints. 

-

Gently and carefully, Thor brings Loki’s limp body into his lap, the priest’s back propped against the warrior’s chest, a large arm draped across Loki’s torso to keep him upright so he wouldn’t choke on the blood in his mouth. A quick evaluation Thor had done had shown that the priest had bitten his tongue, letting blood well in his mouth and drain down his throat, making him choke as he collapsed. It was this caution that Thor kept Loki propped up, unwilling to let the man choke and suffocate on his own blood. 

Thor waits quietly, the incense now burned to nothing and the lamplight flickering out. He carefully refills the lamp with the flask of oil he had found in Loki’s pouch and hopes it will last them the night. Thor will need light to return to the camp. Return home. To Sif and Volstagg. Thankfully, it only takes close to an hour for Loki to rouse back into consciousness, though he does so drowsily. 

‘The gods,’ Loki murmurs, eyes hazy as his head lolls onto Thor’s shoulder, his neck a long line with fading red scratches from his own nails. 

‘Loki,’ says Thor gently, ‘they have left you.’

It takes a few minutes of slow blinking before something like awareness drifts back into the priest. Loki takes a heaving breath, shuddering, before he groans. 

‘Hurts, you ass,’ snarls the man, but there is no heat in his voice and while his body tenses in Thor’s grasp, he does not move away. It’s probably because he can’t, thinks Thor. There must be something like bone-aching weariness in a body when a god has taken it over for a time. However, Loki’s mouth still curls in on itself, unhindered by his fatigue: ‘taking advantage of me, are you? I knew it.’ 

‘I have no want of you like this,’ replies Thor flatly, unwilling to fall into Loki’s word games. ‘Would you like the rest of the wine?’ 

It takes a minute of grudging silence before Loki nods, eyes fluttering shut and body still. Thor, who had gathered all of the priest’s supplies close to them both, grabs the flask and undoes the top, raising it to Loki’s mouth. The priest arches his neck, mouth open, and Thor pours it in, watching the long, pale throat swallow it down. In only a matter of seconds, the wine is gone and Loki leans his head back on the man’s shoulders, tucking his forehead in the crook of Thor’s neck, body relaxed in its fatigue against the warmth at his back. 

‘You seem comfortable here,’ murmurs Thor carefully as he places the flask down and feels the solid weight upon him, unmindful. There is a sort of peace here that he would like to preserve. He would like to talk to Loki like this – when neither side is biting at the other. It is a pleasant fantasy but perhaps not realistic. 

‘I have a Greek soldier at my back doing my bidding, what is there not to like?’ Loki’s eyes are closed and he seems drained. 

‘I… apologize for the undertaking you went through. I had no idea it would affect you so,’ says Thor slowly. 

‘As you should be,’ replies Loki coolly. ‘As you should be for a number of things.’ 

‘Do I not receive any forgiveness even now? After I saved Fandral and Hogun for you?’ 

It is the wrong thing to say. Loki’s eyes snap open and he is immediately struggling out of Thor’s lap, trying to face him with anger etched on his face. ‘You _desecrate_ my home, _steal_ my friends, and force me to let _a god_ into my body to speak with you, and then presume that I forgive you these wrongs for your pride?’ 

The priest somehow manages to stumble to his feet, attempting to stand but his legs collapse underneath him and he hits the floor hard. Thor is immediately reaching forward to help him when his hands are batted away. Loki kneels, pathetically, before Thor, face twisted in pain. 

‘Let me – ’ tries Thor, frowning at the sight of the once-straight backed Loki on his knees, but it is in vain. 

‘Leave me,’ snaps Loki, ‘just – ’ 

‘Loki.’ 

‘I am not an invalid!’ 

‘But you are hurt!’ snaps Thor, ‘why will you not take my help?’ 

‘Because you are a feeble-minded Greek who knows nothing of kindness and of help, who is caught up in his _pride_ – ’ starts Loki, but his words collapse into coughs and he is hunched over, forehead pressed against the floor. Thor scrambles forward, a hand on Loki’s shoulder that is irritably shaken off.

‘You are being stubborn,’ scolds the man, but Loki will have none of it. 

‘I will not be treated as a child – most of all by you.’ 

‘Stop!’ says Thor loudly, temper flaring, and Loki’s body goes still, though he is hunched over and his face hidden. ‘I am Greek, I am a soldier – _fine_! But I have brought you your friends, I only wish to relieve you of this hurt that I have inflicted on you – I have vowed to protect you, have you forgotten?’

This, at least, seems like the right thing to say when, after a pause, Loki’s shoulders sleep to slump, the tension draining from his muscles. The priest’s breath is heavy as pain racks up his spine, and Thor waits, his anger dissipating into sympathy. He has no energy to admire the play of the lamp’s flame over the man’s robes and skin, or the now-taboo sight of the hammer out of the corner of his eye. He kneels, beside Loki, and inclines his head towards him to hear. 

Finally: ‘I wish to rest,’ says Loki, voice muffled. 

‘I shall stand on guard then,’ replies Thor, placing a hand on Loki’s shoulder and is glad when this time it is not shrugged off. Loki keeps his head down, evidently trying to hide his face, but he is compliant when Thor tugs him forward. Somehow, Thor finds himself with his back against the wall again, and he maneuvers to place Loki’s head on his thigh. With a calloused hand, Thor brushes the dark hair off Loki’s cheek and Loki cracks open an eye irritably, mouth pulled downwards in a scowl. 

‘You have already pulled me towards you as a child, I would appreciate you did not touch me as one as well.’ 

Thor can’t help the teasing grin over his face. ‘Would you like me to touch you as a man, then?’ Hoping it comes off as a joke, Thor retreats his hands altogether, settling them into his lap and training his gaze away from Loki to trace the carvings over the hammer’s handle and body with an idle eye. 

In retaliation, the priest makes a noise of disgust in the back of his throat, closing his eyes and reaching a hand above his head to grab at Thor’s wrist. Thor almost jerks at the touch, but he lets the spider-fingers wrap around his skin and his hand hand be pulled forward until Loki has placed it atop his own head. Thor presses down gently to assure him he will keep it there, and with that, Loki falls asleep with a sigh. 

-

Eventually, Thor nods off, and the hours pass. 

He wakes much, much later, blinking blearily in the dim light and finds Loki sitting across from him, watching silently. 

‘Better?’ asks Thor. Loki does not reply immediately, merely adjusts his robes around him, the pouch attached at his hip now refilled with the gold, jewels, coins and hank of wheat. The wine flask sits empty beside the hammer, the cup overturned. 

‘You should leave. Dawn rises. Your camp will find you and think you a spy.’ 

Gathering his thoughts and wits together, Thor stifles a yawn and shrugs. ‘I can sneak back without a problem. It is your health that concerns me.’ 

‘It shouldn’t,’ says Loki succinctly. 

‘But it does. Do you fare better?’ 

The priest frowns. ‘I feel better, but the taste of blood and ache in my gut will not recede. I will return to Troy.’ 

Thor takes a breath, eyes on the overturned cup beside Loki’s legs – the metal glimmering in the dim light of the chamber before he speaks, ‘may I see you once more?’ 

He does not expect a response, and if there is one, it is not to be favourable for what is Loki if but filled with disgust and hatred towards him? Still, Thor hopes, as he always has, and flicks his gaze up to Loki’s face which gives nothing away. 

‘If you wish,’ says Loki slowly, not looking at him. His long fingers play with edges of his robe and he’s suddenly standing, walking towards the door which is to Thor’s left. ‘In a fortnight, then.’ 

Thor is openly staring now – and Loki scoffs at him, ‘when you leave watch your step,’ just as Thor begins to grin, and the priest disappears in a flurry of robes out the door. 

-

Thor finds a string of white yarn that leads down the corridor once he leaves the lower chamber onto the main floor. Following it, he finds the exit of the temple, where the sun is just rising in the distance and realizes what Loki meant by ‘watching his step’. 

He sneaks back into camp soon enough and sleeps throughout the day. 

The glaring sun burns against their skins but a breath of air over the sea brings the promise of fall soon. Thor works, wars, and waits. 

-

‘And so the hammer shall never be yours?’ laughs Sif, belly in the sand as she props her chin up in her hand and watches him. The night is young and the fires blaze between the camps as the men feast on fish and figs and drink wine. Volstagg and Sif are across from him as they listen to him retell his visit after they had left. 

‘I have been deemed unworthy,’ says Thor stiffly, unwilling to part with a blow to his pride. 

‘Of course you have! What were you expecting!’ Sif muffles her laughter against her palm but her body racks with humour. ‘You’ve made – what? Eight sacrifices to the gods in the last five years? You’ll be killing all of Greece’s livestock before Haphaestus parts with anything made of his own.’ 

‘Maybe not,’ pipes up Volstagg, ‘perhaps Achilles can lift it. A mortal above mortality? There are priests and priestesses back home who could probably answer such riddles.’ 

‘Oh yes, if we’re talking great warriors, perhaps we can give the hammer to _Ajax_ ,’ says Sif, delighted, prodding at Thor’s dislike for the man. 

Thor bristles, ‘we are not giving anything to that moronic oaf of a captain. Nor Achilles. I am to return to the temple in a fortnight anyway.’ 

‘You are lovesick,’ says Sif. 

‘One must be in love to be sick of it,’ he shoots back as he chews through his pear. She shakes a head, a smile on her mouth. 

‘Try not to let it dull your spear, o captain.’ 

‘Which one, dear Sif?’ leers Thor, and she throws her apricot pit at him, laughing. 

‘Do you have any other news to impart other than your trysts under the moonlight?’ cuts in Volstagg, pragmatic as always. 

At this, Thor sobers up, swallowing down his piece of pear. ‘Aye, as you should’ve noticed the War Council convened this morning and many captains were obligated to go, so I did.’ He licks his mouth. ‘It seems we will be sailing out from Troy and back to Greece in three days.’ 

Sif furrows her brow. ‘Do they think us too weak to fight? Sending us home without loot or glory of Trojan blood and wealth? We have been doing well with the Trojan allies.’ 

‘No, we shall return to gather up the rest of the armies in Greece,’ replies Thor, ‘this force is but a small sample of the army Agamemnon means to amass. He gathers that it will take months. Even years. He wishes all of Greece to dock its ship on this beach.’ 

‘We’re glorified dogs playing fetch,’ snarls Sif. 

‘Except we’re gathering something a bit more important than a stick,’ points out Volstagg. He turns towards Thor. ‘Winter approaches, we will be unable to return this year to Troy. The winter winds will freeze the crews in their tracks.’ 

‘Which is why it shall take years.’ Thor sighs, looking at the firepit they’ve gathered around as the surf plays in the background. ‘We, along with a few other captains, are to sail back and forth to escort the various islands and regions back here, and Agamemnon wishes for us to focus on the few months of fall to do so.’ He leans back on his palms on the sands, watching the constellations above their heads. ‘Kiss these sands goodbye my friends, for we shall see them naught till the summer to come.’ 

‘Then perhaps the riddles shall be solved back home, no?’ mentions Volstagg quietly, but the mood is too heavy for such levity. Thor only shrugs, staring out at the rolling waves of the sea.

‘Perhaps.’

‘I shall tell my Valkyries,’ says Sif, standing up. Volstagg also leaves him soon after and Thor returns to his tent, gathering his things into his pack. He leaves only his bedding and his tent – weapons, furs, loot, other miscellaneous things tucked away to prepare to sail. 

The evening watch changes into the first night watch and the night fires peter out as most soldiers feel the fatigue settle into their bones as they prepare to sleep. Thor is also one of them.

The scene is the same a fortnight later. The scattered fires glow brightly throughout camp and Thor forgoes sleep this night to pick his way once more among the tents on his journey towards the temple. When he reaches the entrance, he takes a few steps inside and sees a white glimmer of the yarn lying untouched on the floor. 

Thor follows. 

-

He finds Loki sitting before Apollo, a lighted incense stick in his fingers, murmuring hushed prayers before he stands up to face the warrior that enters the lower chamber. The room itself is lit with three lanterns – one hung on the wall beside the entrance, the other by Loki’s feet, and the third on the empty altar. 

‘I fail to see any reason why either of us are here,’ starts Loki, who moves with the liquid grace that Thor had feared was lost once the god communed in his body. 

‘You are feeling better?’ 

Loki rolls his eyes. ‘Of course. It has been a fortnight.’ 

‘Good,’ smiles Thor. ‘I wish to inform you that I am leaving tomorrow morning back for Greece. I hope to return the following year in the summer.’ 

Loki stares at him as if waiting for something and Thor flushes, ‘ah – may I see you once more?’ 

‘Why?’ Loki’s voice is flat. 

‘I – I enjoy your company,’ admits Thor with a shrug. Loki glares at him in response. ‘What may I do to earn less of your ire?’ 

Loki looks away, staring at the rectangular windows at the tops of the lower chamber walls. It is pitch black outside and only the stars outside keep them company. He sits down, leaning his back against the altar, the incense stick burned to ash completely by now. 

‘This war… I suppose it is true that the Trojans have wronged the Greeks,’ says Loki quietly, ‘and I suppose we have asked for this war on our beaches – our foolish prince Paris and his lustful wants. Whether Helen wishes to be here is not even a fact discussed. A disappointing turn in diplomacy.’ The priest traces his fingers over the mosaic on the floor beside his legs. ‘That doesn’t change the fact that your men and you took me, took my friends, took all from this temple, and now you press to take away the last treasure here – the hammer.’ 

Thor can feel the heat of shame sink into his belly, and he sits in front of the other, looking at the stone walls around them. Loki has never seemed more tired or resigned as he is now; his voice flat and expressionless and Thor understands he is the cause of this. 

‘I may offer apologies until my throat is as dry as the sand but it shall not change anything,’ says Thor lightly. 

Loki looks up. ‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. Your repentance would certainly give me some modicum of satisfaction.’ 

‘I see.’ The warrior is at a loss with words. With awkward, jerking movements, Thor settles himself on his knees in front of Loki, willing his neck to bow if only to say at least one apology before his pride flares up. Taking a deep breath, unclenching the muscles in his shoulders, he –

Suddenly, a burst of laughter echoes through the lower chamber – snapping Thor back into reality, his face upturned towards Loki, forgetting all about any apology. 

‘You seriously consider throwing away your pride for what? For some chance at companionship?’ asks the other incredulously. 

‘What is pride to friendship?’ challenges Thor. 

‘What else is left in a being but pride, Greek?’ 

‘Respect.’ He says this with an air of finality. ‘There is no pride, there is respect between friends.’ 

‘You’ve heard such foolish things?’ Loki looks as if he has swallowed poison – mouth tight and brow furrowed. 

‘It was you who told me such.’ 

Of course, the priest seems taken aback by the response. There is genuine confusion written over his pale face, erasing the previous fatigue in favour of bewilderment. ‘ _I did_? You are mistaken.’ 

Thor shakes his head ‘It was you who has given me such considerations. Fandral and Hogun – you were right. Are right. They are not prizes, but people, in the same way that I consider Sif and Volstagg. It was my mistake. I did not offer them the respect to acknowledge them as such.’ 

‘Do you think me foolish to believe that a Greek believed a Trojan’s words? That a Greek was _changed_ – for the _better_ to say the least – due to a Trojan?’ asks Loki with a tone of disbelief. His eyebrows are raised and every part of him seems strung tight with the strength to either attack or flee. 

‘I see nothing wrong with the fact,’ says Thor, growing irritated as his patience wears thin. It is a battle of his stubbornness against Loki’s, and he is determined to win. To have what he wants – a friendship. 

However, the priest has other ideas. ‘We cannot be friends, cannot be companions or meet against both of our gods, we are not a pair of _lovers_ ,’ spits out Loki, ‘who wish to escape battle under the protection of the gods. You are one of Zeus’ champions and I one of Apollo’s blessed.’ 

He is this close to snapping, but Thor reigns in his temper: ‘why can’t you simply _try_?’ 

Loki goes silent. With his back against the empty altar, the flicker of orange light over his pale face, he tilts his head as if in contemplation. Thor does not meet his gaze – he pulls his attention to the play of dust in the air, the flattened palm of Loki’s hand against the stone mosaic of the floor, the way every part of the priest seems to be carved of multi-coloured stone. 

Finally, Loki’s voice arises from the silence, breaking it quickly and curtly: ‘Because it will _end_.’ 

Thor snaps his gaze upwards to find Loki watching him, mouth pressed in a thin line, expression neutral, and Thor suddenly understands that Loki is not averse to the idea. Perhaps the warrior only imagines it, but he likes to think there is something between them – respect, a hint of camaraderie, a ghost of loyalty. They have held each other’s words, come through on their respective ends. Surely this means something? 

Without a thought in mind, Thor reaches forward. His hand lands on Loki’s shoulder and he squeezes it while smiling. ‘It will be fine. I shall repay you for the damage I have done. I will bring you gold and loot to honour your god as you should. I will repent as friends repent.’ 

‘We’re not – ’ frowns Loki, but he is cut off when Thor drags the priest against his chest in a one-armed hug, propping his chin on top of the dark hair. 

‘Try.’ 

He hears Loki sigh against his chest, spider fingers dancing up Thor’s arm to where the man’s hand rests on the priest’s back. Their hands press once, briefly, a flare of heat, and Loki says, almost grudging, his voice muffled against Thor’s torso, ‘my first Greek friend then.’ 

Thor laughs, pulling away, and Loki is staring adamantly over the warrior’s shoulder, seemingly embarrassed, though his expression doesn’t seem to change. Loki pulls away, though they are still close and Thor’s hand is a blaze against Loki’s side, but Thor pays no mind and continues: ‘I leave for the winter, but I shall return. How may I speak and see you then?’ 

Loki’s answer is slow and careful, as if he is testing the waters of this newfound agreement. ‘I take walks with Polyxena and other of Priam’s children on the walls of Troy during the warmer months. When you return, you may find me there as you once did.’ 

‘Must you return soon?’ asks Thor and almost flushes with how much of a plaintive lover he sounds. His pride rebels and coughs, standing up and putting some distance between them. 

Loki stands in turn and shrugs. ‘It would be for the better.’ He straightens his robes and watches Thor with something the other can’t place in his gaze. It is colder than what Thor wishes, but he understands Loki’s reservations. The hurts of the war cannot be mitigated away through companionship with the cause. Still, Thor is pleased. 

‘Till then?’ Thor smiles, expression genuine and warm and he hopes Loki gets it. 

Instead, Loki shows nothing except nodding once. ‘Yes,’ he says and he is walking away, through the lower chamber, past the door, up the stairs, into the dark. 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead! I know - I'm pretty surprised myself. I hope you enjoy this update, considering it's a couple months super late. :)
> 
> Notes: _Haphaestus_ : Greek god of blacksmithing, he is the only 'ugly' Greek god in that he's terribly deformed but whatever armor and weapons he creates are said to be flawless. Somehow, he's married to Aphrodite, the goddess of beauty and love. He's on the side of the Greeks since his wife is cheering for the Trojans.  
>  _Ajax_ : one of the famous Greek hero warriors, with the likes of Achilles and Odysseus. He specializes in being all brawn and no brains.


	4. Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warnings:** mild violence, language, and UST. please feel free to point out any errors in writing/characterisaton! :)

They sail at dawn with three other captains and their crews back to Greece. The fall winds push at their canvas over stretches of blue, rocking them to and fro. Thor eats with his crew on his ship and watches as Sif and Volstagg dine with their own soldiers on their own decks. Their three ships move in tandem across the sea, and eventually, they reach Greece after a fortnight – the winds and weather favourable.

‘It was good – the sea air,’ says Volstagg heartily once they’ve camped out on the beaches and wait for further instructions.

Sif nods. ‘The Valkyries were glad to be on unsteady ground for a bit. They were getting flat-footed.’

‘You are always so severe, Sif,’ laughs Thor.

‘Aye, but I am the best,’ counters Sif, and he can’t help but nod his acquiesce.

‘Now, Thor, tell us, how was your meeting with Loki,’ says Volstagg with a grin bordering on lewd, and Sif smacks his back in her laughter.

Thor coughs. ‘There was nothing. We spoke – peaceably.’

‘Did you fuck peaceably as well?’ smirks Sif.

‘The wildcat would never let him,’ says Volstagg. ‘Though, perhaps you are missing out. I have had lovely times with Fandral.’

‘And I with Hogun,’ sighs the woman.

‘Miss him then?’ asks Thor curiously.

‘It does not matter. The Trojan wall has ended that companionship,’ says Sif, waving a hand through the air as if to dismiss his words. ‘He was a fine man to speak with as well as to fuck. Seems a pity to be unable to use his tongue one way or another.’

‘Our Sif turns sentimental,’ remarks Thor, glancing at Volstagg who simply shrugs.

‘Perhaps we both do. I quite liked Fandral. I recall he had fine taste in figs, and he would speak long of the beauty of both Troy and Greece, though he has never seen but soldiers from one.’

Thor shifts in place, thinking long of Loki. He cannot relate – the wildcat is secretive and sharp. But Thor will meet him again, speak, and hope against all hope that Loki will warm up to him in that same harsh, temperamental way he has agreed to their continue friendship.

‘I will see him once more when we return,’ says Thor, ‘and I welcome both of you to send trinkets to your own companions, if you wish.’

‘What do you mean by seeing him again?’ asks Sif, ‘does the Trojan wall pose that little difficulty to you?’

‘Loki has agreed to see me once more via the temple.’ He shrugs. ‘I could inquire as to the health of the other two priests.’

‘Perhaps we should rename our company to The Sentimental Fools,’ snorts Sif, but her mouth is quirked upwards and Thor knows she will take his offer.

-

The months go quickly enough. Thor keeps a journal – his writing short and choppy – of the day’s events summarized to a mere paragraph or two. The pages fill up with repeated mentions of sleeping through the winter, waiting for Agamemnon’s letters to convince the king of this region to acquiesce and join the war against Troy or face the wrath of the three companies splayed over his beaches.

There are still many states that Agamemnon has yet to convince and Thor imagines they will be ferrying these new kings and their men from Greece and Troy for many months to come. Perhaps years if the siege does not end.

Still no news comes that Troy has opened its gates, and they wait in Greece, feet buried in the sand, watching as politics swings them back and forth like a pendulum.

-

It has been a year.

The siege stretches to its second year. Thor, Sif, and Volstagg let spring winds push them across the Aegean with the new king and his men behind them.

Troy comes into view – same as ever, though remnants of crops dot the beaches and grasslands. Odysseus waves them to beach their ships and Agamemnon exits his tent to greet this king, embracing him, pressing a kiss to the man’s forehead, and ushering him into the tent.

Thor watches this all impassively, putting up his tent with his men around him. He picks a spot purposefully towards the east, near the edge of camp, and no one questions him and his battleaxe.

It is the next day, convening with Sif and Volstagg over breakfast, that he admits he will be seeing Loki today.

‘Then take this blade,’ says Sif, who hands him a knife with ivory studded handle. It is from her loot – one they have expanded with this new king’s small town allies as he read and reread Agamemnon’s words.

‘And this,’ says Volstagg, handing him a red tunic with golden embroidery around the sleeves and hem. Thor smiles at them and slips it into a pouch that he will grab once night falls.

After breakfast, he joins the scouts to scope the walls as they do every day. Thor chats amicably with one of the scouts that check the perimeter of the wall to the west. Behind them, Achilles follows, head cocked upwards, and lo behold, the sun is shining warmly enough for Polyxena to dip her head outside of the palace and take a walk upon the walls.

And – as an apparition might – Loki appears beside her, dressed in white with a green sash around his waist.

It takes an entire minute of following their route on ground – Thor, Achilles, and the scout – that Polyxena looks below and Achilles freezes in step. Thor and the scout keep moving. A glance upwards says that Loki follows. Eventually, the scout begins to jog forward to finish his scouting and Thor pauses, neck craned upwards the long sandstone walls.

Loki is frozen in his spot upon the wall. An eagle wheels the sky above them and the sun burns upon the back of Thor’s neck as he waits, as he always waited, and Loki raises a hand, as if to wave, before dropping it and turning away to return to Polyxena.

The scout jogs back and grins at Thor, and they resume the chatting, which Thor can keep up with ease as he glances at the horizon and waits for the sun to descend.

-

Thor takes his dinner in his tent, gathering his pouch, a blade for precaution, and his small journal that he has kept over the year. The night fires are lit and the men ease to sleep under the tents. Sif and Volstagg bid him goodnight, peeking into his tent with lewd grins, and Thor barks out laughter at their perverse insistence.

Soon, Thor is heading out – his trip easier with their camp being at the edges where it is more convenient to duck out. He crosses the cool sand with quiet efficiency and ducks into the temple. Vaguely, he searches for any clue as to where to go from there – and he finds, glinting dimly, the faint shine of the white string that Loki had once left behind, now covered in sand.

Following it slowly, Thor brushes most of the sand off it, keeping an eye on it as his feet whisper over the familiar smooth, mosaic patterned floor. They lead to the stairs that descend into the lower chamber – the wooden doors closed.

Cautiously, Thor pulls out his blade and pushes the door open. There was no telling with Loki – whether he had renounced the friendship and called upon Trojan guards, or if he had not even bothered to show up to the temple.

The door swings open and he is confronted with four lanterns lit up. Two flank the door, one on the altar, which is now covered with a piece of embroidered cloth and an incense stick holder that is currently occupied. Loki himself is holding the fourth one in his hand, dressed in maroon robes with a dark sash around his waist with sandals. His hair is longer than Thor remembers it. The edges curl from behind Loki’s ear and it makes him look endearing to the warrior.

‘I have returned,’ says Thor brightly, sliding the blade back into his belt and he doesn’t miss the way Loki’s eyes follow the movement. ‘And I have brought you gifts.’

Loki snorts. ‘You mean repayment for Apollo.’

‘Aye, repayment _and_  gifts,’ insists the other. ‘Come, let us sit.’

Loki rolls his eyes but he arranges himself beside the altar, one knee propped up where he rests his chin as Thor crosses his legs before him, pulling the pouch at his hip and placing it between them.

Silently, Loki undoes the drawstrings around the pouch and draws it open, overturning it. Out clatters Hogun’s blade, Fandral’s tunic, many gold coins, two lavishly decorated incense holders, miscellaneous jewels, and a gold goblet studded with a few precious gemstones. There is also Thor’s journal that slides out, and that is the one Loki crumples his brow over.

‘An old book?’ he says, eyes glancing up to look at Thor. ‘What shall I do with this?’

Thor scratches his cheek, ‘ah, it is a journal. My journal.’

Loki stares. ‘Oh.’

‘It has been a year, of course,’ starts Thor, a creeping embarrassment burning up his neck, ‘it would only be fair to know what I have done over the past for I cannot recount it all to you this night.’

Loki doesn’t answer as fingers flip through the pages, his nails scratching against the paper lightly, careful not to tear anything. It feels like an eternity to Thor before the priest seems satisfied with his skimming and puts down the journal.

The next few minutes are spent with Thor observing Loki sort through the objects with a vague interest. Quickly, he explains the presence of the tunic and ivory-handle blade, and Loki simply nods before moving onto the next object.

The long fingers sort through the coins, overturning the goblet so it catches the firelight, examining the gemstones in the palm of his pale hand. Finally, with a sound of pleasure at the back of his throat, Loki looks up smirking.

‘This shall buy me adequate things for the altar. The rest of the temple shall remain empty I suppose.’

‘You exploit me for my loot,’ accuses Thor lightly.

‘Perhaps,’ replies Loki succinctly, ‘may I take this pouch for tonight? I shall return it tomorrow.’

Thor pauses. ‘I never said anything of returning tomorrow, dearest priest.’

‘Well, I suppose you are simply obliged to,’ shrugs Loki noncommittally.

‘Eager to see me once more?’ teases the man with a grin. The other scoffs.

‘You think much too highly of yourself. It is my presence you crave, do you not?’

‘I shall never respond and you shall never know.’

The priest is staring at him, looking exasperated. He holds up Thor’s journal. ‘You must have thought of me quite often to write something like this.’

Thor shrugs but does not meet his eye – glancing over at the embroidered fabric that is draped over the altar. It is yellow with white flowers along the edges, made entirely of silk. ‘I have never had a Trojan friend, I suppose.’

Loki hums, watching him with those green eyes, before he stands up, lantern in one hand and the pouch tucked into the sash at his hip. ‘I must call this meeting to an end. Tomorrow night, then, Thor?’

‘A-Aye,’ agrees Thor hurriedly, taken aback by the sudden movement. He stands as well, and though he easily dwarfs the priest, there is something about Loki’s expression that puts him on edge. ‘Till tomorrow night.’

‘Wonderful,’ says Loki, smirking now, ‘I shall gift the blade and tunic as your friends wished. Now, do blow out the lanterns when you leave.’ Without a moment’s a pause, he walks through the door and Thor imagines he can hear the man’s steps on the stairs but he will not know for sure.

Without preamble, Thor blows out the lanterns, smelling the oil and smoke, before he shuts the door behind him and follows the white string to the entrance.

-

The War Council convenes.

Thor and various other companies are to leave in one month to head back to Greece. Agamemnon wants this siege to finish by next year.

-

‘Do the Trojans not starve?’ asks Sif incredulously. ‘We farm and we import – Odysseus crews sail back and forth to get food. Even Achilles’ men have started going further than the Simois for sustenance.’

Thor shrugs, chewing on a fig, as he tries to calculate how much they will need to stock up on for their trip back.

‘They say their wells run deep, their gold runs free, and Apollo blesses them each and every day,’ says Volstagg as if he is reading a scroll, before his voice falls flat, ‘but it is all bullshit. I have heard to underground tunnels that lead out beneath the city to farm lands far out the other side of Troy. Perhaps they also import in their own way.’

‘Even if they do, we must gather our own,’ snaps Thor, ‘I would have salted meat for each of our ships.’

-

‘You leave again then?’ says Loki, dressed in dark blue robes, head cocked, as he leans against the altar. The incense has been lit and Thor feels drowsy – the day’s hard labour coupled with the warmth and comfort he finds here. He leans against the altar beside Loki, blinking slowly.

‘Mm, yes,’ he murmurs, ‘I shall return, of course. Perhaps even in the summer. If not, then next summer.’

‘Another year’s interlude, then? And still you wish to continue these meetings?’

‘I like you, Loki,’ says Thor plainly, his head turned as to look at the other, and Loki seems almost surprised at the admission.

‘I have… discerned that much,’ the priest replies slowly.

A minute passes where Loki’s fingers curl into the edges of his sleeves and he stares adamantly at the wooden door before them before Thor breaks the silence, ‘do you starve in Troy?’

Loki snorts. ‘Does it look like I starve?’

‘No.’ Thor reaches over and grasps Loki’s wrist gently. The priest is tense now – jaw clenched as he watches Thor turn over Loki’s hand for observation. It is a warm weight in his grip and Thor admires the long fingers up close, the pristine nails, the sheer cleanliness. ‘You are still skinny, though.’

Loki glares at him sulkily, watching as Thor cradles his wrist in both hands in the warrior’s lap. ‘What is this sudden fascination for my appendages?’

Thor traces the rough pad of his thumb across Loki’s palm and feels the shiver that results. He smirks. ‘Would you like me to busy myself with some other appendage?’

‘You are being crude,’ snaps Loki but his arm does not move and Thor folds his hand over top Loki’s, enveloping it in warmth.

Thor hums. ‘Are you safe wherever you are? What do you do as the days pass?’

‘I fail to see how that is any of your business.’

‘A friend wishes to know if you are content is all. Do you reject all kindness as such?’

‘Shut up,’ says Loki in a sigh. His fingers twitch around Thor’s heavy, warm palm before he starts again. ‘I work in the temple at Priam’s palace. It is the second largest temple, the first being this one. I spend my days in prayer, in blessing, in sacrifice. The masses come to me for hope and advice and I give them the best I can. In the morning, I walk with Polyxena. In the evening, I dine with the rest of the priests. At night, I walk through the city to here.’

‘And over the past year?’ prompts Thor.

Loki shrugs. ‘I have taken to documenting temple tradition and writing down prayers. It is an extensive project, and I collaborate with Hogun and Fandral for a few hours each day.’

‘Why?’

‘So if we are to lose, there shall always be the Trojan’s worship of Apollo preserved for future man,’ replies Loki simply.

Thor watches the priest, noting the slim line of the mouth, the half-lidded green eyes, and he can’t help but sigh. ‘You weren’t a happy child during youth, weren’t you?’

Loki scowls at him, but Thor is grinning and the priest’s expression softens.

‘You are quite insufferable, you know that?’ remarks Loki, pulling his arm back. Thor lets it go without resistance, smiling. The priest is shaking his head, pulling the pouch from his sash and handing it to Thor. ‘Take your damn pouch back already.’

‘Yes, thank you. Did Hogun and Fandral take to the gifts?’ Thor watches the priest stand up and follows.

‘Enough to grant thanks. Not enough to resume slavery.’

‘You know I would never, nor Sif, nor Volstagg,’ says Thor, voice low and serious. Loki pauses, looking at him with wide eyes, before nodding curtly.

‘Till summer, then?’ asks Thor, watching the retreating back of the other.

Loki tosses a wave back at him. ‘Till summer.’

-

This king is further inland than the previous.

Sif picks summer-fat grapes from the vines and munches on them as they walk through the opulent fields.

‘We’re bringing all this home?’ she asks. Volstagg is too busy spitting out an apple core to answer.

‘Aye, come harvest time,’ replies Thor around the pit of a peach. He sighs. Another year lost.

-

It is a wonder how Troy never changes – like a perfect portrait of itself over the years. The waves lap at the cliffs around the land and the sandstone walls remain still and imposing, never deeming to open itself to the Greeks.

It takes three days for Thor and the others to unload the masses of supplies – salted meat, preserved fruits and vegetables, various living animals such as goats and chickens, preparation for the third winter in a row amongst the white sand of Troy’s beaches.

The War Council convenes. The next time they send a force will be in another month. Agamemnon wants to bring back more kings with more soldiers and more food. He will not rest until the walls crumble and Helen is in his brother’s arms once more.

Thor rests for another day. The month shortens by four days. He has only half a month to stock up once more for his crew, plus receive letters for each king they intend to visit. Quickly, he speaks with Sif and Volstagg and decides to one short visit with Loki, whom he hunts down along the wall, Achilles in tow.

Loki does not wave, does not make any outward appearance to recognize Thor, but Thor knows he has been seen and waits for the night to fall.

-

‘You are ridiculous,’ says Loki, drinking wine from his gold cup that Thor had given him the year past.

‘And you are drunk,’ comments Thor, looking beside him as Loki drinks deep from the cup, eyes fluttering closed. Loki hums, leaning against the altar, now decked out with multiple incense holders, a silver bowl filled with gemstones, and numerous tapestries and silk cushions decorating the space.

‘I am a priest. My tolerance for alcohol is much higher than a mere soldier’s.’

‘You give yourself too much credit.’

Loki snorts, placing the now empty cup on the floor between them. ‘This has been our seventh meeting, do you not get tired of it?’

‘Ah, you’ve been keeping count!’ grins Thor, and the other man glowers at him.

‘You’ve missed the point.’

Thor waves a hand as if to dismiss the words. ‘The point is that I enjoy your company and I may only infer that you enjoy mine for you return time and time again.’

The priest is silent, his hands clenching and unclenching in his lap, palms facing upwards towards the ceiling of the lower chamber. The slit-like windows show only the night and the stars – and Thor is only reminded of what they do in this place – like Loki once said, ‘a pair of lovers who wish to escape battle.’

‘Come, I’ve brought you more coins and loot. I will bring you a vase next, or perhaps a water jug would be more suited to you,’ says Thor, filling in the silence.

‘You forget your journal,’ murmurs Loki.

‘Ah, yes, I gave you that as well. It has many observations on wine and grapes and the conquering of farm lands. Perhaps not as interesting as the last.’

‘It will do.’

Thor falls silent. Beside him, Loki picks at the pouch on his sash that he has not yet opened. It probably contains another flask of wine to go with the empty one beside the altar. When Loki, who sighs audibly, begins to tug at the drawstring and open it, Thor tilts his head in mild curiosity and is confused when Loki pulls out many folded pieces of parchment.

‘Here, take them,’ says Loki roughly, shoving the seeming letters at Thor’s chest, who grasps them easily. Unfolding one of them, Thor skims over the curving script and suddenly understands what is in his hands.

‘These are letters of your year past,’ says Thor, looking at Loki with cautious smile.

‘Put them away already, I must go soon,’ snaps the man irritably.

‘Of course.’ They slide easily into his pouch.

‘Till next summer then? Is this how these supposed trysts are supposed to work?’ asks Loki, whose hair has grown even longer, notices Thor – the conclusion coming to him too late.

‘It will be fourth year of this siege,’ groans Thor, head hitting the altar behind him. ‘I grow tired of this constant sailing.’

‘And the fighting?’ inquires Loki softly.

‘You know how I feel about the fighting.’

‘Ares’ lover, of course.’ The priest makes the motions to stand up and Thor does as well. Soon, all the loot around Loki has been gathered in his respective pouch and he holds a silver anklet and a pair of new sandals in his one hand, eyebrow raised. ‘Have your friends run out of ideas?’

Thor shrugs. ‘They are fine gifts.’

‘To your artless eyes,’ snorts the man.

‘As long as Fandral and Hogun find the sentiment, it matters not.’

‘You and sentiment, Thor,’ mocks Loki, but it is without heat. He turns. ‘Till next summer, I suppose.’

‘Do think of me while I am gone, dearest Loki,’ shoots back Thor and the priest shakes his head, walking away.

-

‘He called my present artless, did he?’ scowls Sif, walking through another tree grove. ‘If I charm this new king, he shall be obliged to grant me a gift, will he not? I shall show Loki his supposed _art_.’

‘Do not be bitter, Sif,’ soothes Volstagg beside her, ‘I am confident Hogun was pleased.’

‘As he should be,’ says the other with an air of finality. ‘I wish to see him, I think.’

Thor raises his eyebrows at her. ‘See Hogun?’

‘If you can have your lovers’ trysts, I can have mine, Thor,’ she challenges.

‘They are not – ’ he protests weakly, but his companions’ conversation overcomes his voice entirely.

Soon, they’ve killed dozens upon dozens of men and Thor announces to the king, ‘Agamemnon calls for you.’

-

Loki’s letters recount his long days with the royal family and the fellow priests. They are short, to the point, much like Thor’s own journal. There is not a hint of sentiment that he can find amongst the words. He learns nothing but Loki’s daily rituals, and perhaps that is also a sign that Loki is as methodical as he seems. Thor recalls the priest has smuggled out both Fandral and Hogun within a month’s time while his city was under siege. It makes Thor wonder what Loki’s social status is amongst the Trojans – the sheer power he must have to wander as he does amongst the city and into an abandoned temple.

-

When they return, the time is too strained for Thor to find Loki on the wall and soon he is back on the seas with his company, receiving much gold from Agamemnon for his services and more demands upon him.

Thor does not see Loki in the fourth year of the war.

-

‘My weapon becomes dull,’ announces Sif to him as they lounge lazily upon the bench of some abandoned home. They have ended up on some spit of rocky ground where the sea winds are harsh and cold against their skin and the wind howls like some mourning mother. Thor supposes that Agamemnon wishes this king’s soldiers for their hardiness, not resources, for there is scarcely any food or precious items scattered around.

‘I have found many whetstones,’ says Volstagg, crouching before the hearth to light a bit of kindling for warmth. The skies darken. Thor knows it is too early for autumn storms but he does not intent to risk it. He lays out his furs on the ground and prepares to eat and sleep.

‘Also, my senses grow dull as well,’ whines Sif, splaying herself on the fur beside the fire, sword tucked next to her stomach. ‘We fight the same peasants and we sail the same Aegean and we eat the same fish and fruit. I grow bored.’

Volstagg hums sympathetically, letting the flame blaze upwards, and he runs a hand over Sif’s hair in some modicum of comfort. ‘Agamemnon says he will break the siege this year. We will be able to amuse ourselves with the Trojans soon enough.’

‘Agamemnon is full of shit,’ says Thor, eyes closed, listening to the patter of rain that has begun outside. ‘They had been negotiating peace when I last left the War Council. Achilles wishes to marry Polyxena.’

Sif sighs. ‘So much for the glorious, blood-stained finish then. Perhaps, instead of spears, we can toss flower petals at Priam and Hector instead.’

-

The king of the rock acquiesces to sail across the Aegean the following summer. Thor and the rest come back to Troy during the fifth year, going through the same motions of escorting kings to Agamemnon, setting up camp, resting for a day before setting out in the morning, feet in the warm, white sand of Troy to see the priest.

Loki does not come as he usually does. Nor does Polyxena. Achilles also does not dog his steps and Thor stands still before the long, sand stone walls until the sun burns into his neck and his thirst drives him back to camp.

-

It is the next day that he sees Loki and it is not at the temple nor on the wall.

Loki walks through the camp right into Agamemnon’s war tent.

Of course Polyxena is also in tow, as well as a few other well-dressed Trojans. The company disappear inside the tent and they do not emerge until nightfall. Thor stands amongst the crowds of soldiers that gather as they walk, straight-backed and beautiful, through the camp to the gates of Troy.

Thor wishes to catch his attention and he weaves through the crowds to keep up with the party walking swiftly through the sand. He moves, not daring to speak or call out Loki’s name in the hushed silence of the camp.

Look to me, Thor wants to say, to your side, here, but Loki stares straight ahead, his hand on Polyxena’s elbow and the other emissaries following behind them.

His chance comes when someone catcalls at Polyxena and Loki’s head is whipping around, a scowl on his face. Thor – stuck between one soldier and another – makes a sound and lo, Loki sees him, scowl transforming into shock which then quickly slides into a blank expression, swinging his head before him, pace increasing.

They reach the gates, which slide open but a crack, enough for a few people to pass through, and soon, Troy is closed enough again.

-

‘Marriage negotiations or peace treaties?’ asks Volstagg at dinner.

Thor shrugs. ‘They are both one and the same.’

‘And now the wildcat negotiates for Priam,’ comments Sif. ‘Does anyone ever ask what the woman wants in these things?’

‘I have heard Polyxena is much more than willing. She brought the idea of marriage up. Somehow news got to Achilles and he accepted.’ Thor tears off a hunk of bread and chews. ‘Does being head priest of Priam’s temple in the palace mean he dines at their table then? Like a prince.’

‘Don’t be jealous now,’ laughs Volstagg, ‘We have dined in fine halls back in Sparta and Athens, you must admit.’

-

That night, Thor follows the white string to the lower chambers, pushing the wooden door aside and is confronted with light and Loki dressed in pristine white robes, his belt black.

‘The warrior returns back from war,’ mocks Loki, his face unimpressed. It is not the greeting Thor expects, but perhaps he should have.

‘You wound me. I bring you gifts.’

Loki snorts, sprawling himself on the cushions that seemed to have doubled since two years ago. ‘You bring me payment. Come then.’

Thor seats himself cross-legged before Loki and hands him the pouch. Loki takes it, empties it noisily over the floor and begins to sort through the trinkets, jewels, and money. It is a considerable amount – Agamemnon is fairly generous when Thor returns with armies and food and bears neither complaint nor display the insolence that Achilles does.

‘I receive no journal this time, then,’ remarks the priest absently, fingering the coins before dropping them in his own pouch.

‘Wait.’ Thor fumbles in his belt and pulls out a pile of parchment tied together by string. ‘I did not have anything bound. I hope this will do.’

Loki takes them, flipping through. In return, he pulls out his own tied bundle of parchment and gives it to Thor. ‘In our continuous wish to learn each other in reverse.’

‘Your days are very repetitive,’ says Thor, grinning, ‘you didn’t even dream of me?’

The priest rolls his eyes. ‘Your own letters lack in something as well.’

‘I suppose I wish to say certain things to you when I may see you,’ admits Thor with a shrug.

‘Such as?’

‘Are you not curious of me at all?’ wonders Thor. Across from him, Loki has pulled out a handful of grapes from his sleeve and eats them. There is a pause where Thor is nonplussed. ‘Do the Trojans really have that much _luxury_  to grow grapes under a siege?’

‘The Trojans are blessed, dearest Thor,’ drawls Loki. ‘It has been five years, and there will be five more, and still we will not open our doors and surrender.’

Shaking his head, Thor reaches over and plucks a grape from the other and pops it into his mouth. It bursts in his mouth, sweet and ripe, and he makes a sound of pleasure, eyes closing involuntarily. It has been so long and Thor has grown used to the salt of the meat and fish and the dryness of the fruits. When he comes to, Loki is watching him intently, face carefully devoid of any expression.

‘You truly enjoyed that,’ he comments, voice low.

‘It is a luxury.’ Thor licks his mouth, trying to find any remnants of the juice. ‘I was born on a spit of rock, raised by a stern hand. The only luxury I seemed to have been the hot springs there.’

Loki tilts his head, swallowing down a grape. ‘I was orphaned by Apollo’s high priestess, Laufey. She died during the fever season. I was young.’

Thor nods. ‘Aye, my father still lives on that spit of rock. I have never known my mother.’ He frowns, recalling his past. ‘Volstagg was with me through much of my childhood. At fourteen, we traveled to Sparta, joined a mercenary company under the contract of Menelaus at the time. There we met a smaller, deadlier unit called the Valkyries, headed by Sif. Four years later, Volstagg’s company and Sif’s company were under my command.’

‘So you are a leader of a group of experienced killers,’ says Loki.

‘As we all are,’ retorts Thor, challenge in his eyes, but Loki seems disinterested in the topic. The priest finishes his grapes without flourish and traces the embroidery on one of his cushions with a finger.

‘After my mother’s death, I was raised into priesthood by the rest. Soon I was joined by Hogun and Fandral by the time I was thirteen. I rose through the ranks to high priest of the temple in about six years.’

‘The old men let _you_  become high priest by the time you were nineteen?’ snorts Thor in disbelief.

Loki’s smile is feral. ‘There is as much power in your battleaxe as there are in my words.’

Thor grins, ‘you once called upon a god. That much I will admit.’ Loki touches his neck with reminiscence, but doesn’t reply. The other reaches over and claps him over the shoulder in a burst of affection. ‘I have missed you, friend.’

Loki shifts under the grip, sitting upright, now right up close to the other. He is watching the warrior, mouth pressed in a line, face blank. Without a sound, Thor’s hand slides from shoulder to neck, cupping it gently, thumb pressing against the jawline.

The priest is warm to the touch and he makes no moves to get away from Thor. The warrior’s fingers twitch, tangling with the dark, dark hair at the nape of Loki’s neck, and he does not dare breathe. There is something like anticipation between them, Thor thinks hazily, and suddenly he knows that Loki will taste of good wine, of ripe grapes, of _power_.

Thor’s hand drops, letting it land noisily in his lap.

Loki lets out a shaky breath, pulling away, chin tucked into his chest, ‘It was pleasing to see you again but I must leave you.’

‘Of course.’ Thor swallows, watching the other gather his things. Soon, Loki disappears past the door, and he is left alone with a bundle of parchment in his hands and his heart in his throat.

-

This Grecian king is less inclined to wage battles against Thor’s company and the others that accompany him, and he invites them into his palace to discuss Agamemnon’s letters.

Thor stumbles over his words as he is wont to do. He is a man of battle and strategy and ruthlessness in the face of blood and death but politics is not his game. Volstagg saves him, speaking soothing words and honeying the terms given. Sif rests her chin on the palm of her hand, elbow propped on the table and says nothing along with Thor, who makes vague attempts to seem attentive to the proceedings.

In the night, Thor reads Loki’s letters by the night fire while his companions sleep. They are a bit longer than the ones previous. Loki is careful to leave nothing behind that hints at the state of Troy except their distress over Agamemnon on their beaches. Thor is in the enemy camp. Can’t be too certain. Later, he will admit he does the same in his own exchange with Loki.

It is in the third night where he stumbles over Loki’s script and he barks out a laugh at the poetry for he knows Loki has left it behind to tease him.

_Today I received a hank of dried, brittle wheat. It was as golden as you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I updated!! I honestly had so many plans to edit this story, but the truth is - I'm so done with this fic that what you read will be the first and only draft. I apologize for the wait and I hope you can find it in you to still enjoy this fic to whatever extent you can. thank you so much for your encouragement and patience. <3


	5. Separation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warnings:** violence, language, and explicit sex. please feel free to point out any errors in writing/characterisaton! :)

The sixth summer upon Troy, one wise king meets another, supplies are loaded on and off. Days pass in work and labour. Crops are sown and resown. Reaped and reaped once more. Once a month for the past year, Loki, Polyxena, and a host of other Trojans enter Agamemnon’s tent and once a month, emissaries from Greece – Achilles, Patrocles and a handful of others enter a tent erected in front of the Trojan gates to discuss with Priam and his elder son, Hector, themselves. 

Negotiations are ever long and political. Resources must be exchanged, territories discussed, the dead to mourn, the living to recompense, food and water and trade to be kept in mind in all the things. Maps are drawn up and out, marriage has turned into a political feud – or perhaps it was one before this – and the soldiers in camp wait. 

Sif and company hunts for meat amongst the rugged hills north of the Simois, Volstagg helps the carpenters with labour and design, and Thor flits in and out of farming and the War Council, receiving and giving out orders to others. 

Soon, the first week of a new month arrives and Loki and Polyxena and the rest visit. It is that night that Thor visits the temple, the memory of Loki’s warmth and solidity beneath his palm still a visceral memory that makes his mouth dry up if he ponders it too long. 

By the time he gets there, Loki has apparently just entered, for he is lighting lanterns, everything seeming more bright as there are decorated vases now, and pots, and candles scattered over the altar and temple floor, as well as a full flask of wine that seems to be more for display then to drink. 

‘I have brought you something special,’ announces Thor, and Loki turns around, eyebrow raised as he blows out the flame on his incense to let the embers burn on the stick. 

‘You are much too kind,’ replies the other dryly. Thor ignores him, sprawling himself on his side, elbow propped on a cushion to rest his head as he dumps his pouch onto the floor and then reaches into another pouch on his belt, holding it up as if on display. 

‘This is for you. Only for you.’ 

Loki takes the pouch, a wry smile on his mouth. ‘Hogun and Fandral will be displeased.’ 

‘I fail to see why. Sif and Volstagg have given them a present each time I have visited.’ 

‘True, but now you indulge in your fancy.’ 

Thor frowns. ‘Let me indulge. See it.’ 

Loki tugs on the drawstrings, pulling it open, and draws out a long, bejeweled necklace – made of silver and emerald. His eyes widen and there is a small intake of breath. ‘Where have you gotten _this_?’ 

‘A woman sold it to me,’ says Thor, watching him with a smile. ‘She said it was the most beautiful necklace in the world. She gave it the name Brisingamen. Your hair grows long, it would complement both that and your neck.’ 

‘You are a sentimental fool,’ murmurs Loki, unhooking the necklace and wrapping it around his neck, chin tilted upwards. 

‘You look lovely,’ says Thor sincerely, and Loki seems to falter under such a feeling. He takes it off, sliding it back into the small pouch, and leaving it tucked in his sash. 

‘Well, what have you done then that brings you back?’ says Loki, his voice loud in the temple. 

‘I have sailed and I have negotiated, though it took a toll on my interest, and I have farmed and seen you from afar. Do the negotiations go well?’ 

Loki quiets as he sits down, arranging his robes around him, face shuttered. ‘Paris is the least receptive to the suggestion. Also, Agamemnon brings more soldiers despite these so-called peace negotiations.’ He looks towards Thor pointedly. ‘It seems redundant to have these meetings, but Achilles will have Polyxena and Polyxena will have her Achilles.’ 

‘Then let them marry,’ says Thor who has no appetite for politics. ‘They are simply people.’ 

‘They are symbols, Thor,’ snaps Loki, ‘just as we are.’ 

‘Are we? I am but a soldier, you but a priest.’ 

‘You are a captain and I am head priest.’ Loki waves a hand as if to dismiss the man’s words. ‘It doesn’t matter. The politics behind the marriage will not work. Priam predicts another year of siege. We will sit through it.’ 

‘Do you not grow restless?’ asks Thor, infinitely curious. ‘I have sailed to all the corners of Greece by now, I am sure.’ He grins. ‘Come with me. I will show you the world.’ 

Loki is staring at him now incredulously. ‘You think a head priest can simply disappear from Priam’s table? I will not leave Troy.’ 

‘What loyalty binds you here?’ 

‘The same that binds you to your company.’ 

Thor feels like he has lost this one but no matter. ‘The offer still stands as it is.’ 

Loki shakes his head. ‘I will keep that in mind.’ He takes the lapse in conversation to take in the items splayed across the floor between them. ‘You will grow poor soon, I think.’ 

Thor shrugs, ‘I do not require as many gold coins as you think. Also, your letters grow wordier. It is pleasing.’ 

‘Is it? I have entire paragraphs to show you in these ones, then,’ says Loki, pulling out his bundle and tossing it towards the other. Thor catches them with ease and flips through. 

‘Do you get more free time now?’ 

‘Yes,’ admits the priest. ‘It seems half a decade was suitable enough time to document the rituals of Apollo. Now, I must find other things to occupy my time.’ 

‘Collect flowers,’ suggests Thor mindlessly. 

‘I am not _that_ idle, fool,’ shoots back the other as he pours the coins into his pouch. 

‘Find a lover, then, I heard they take up much of one’s time.’ Thor glances over to discern a reaction but he receives none. Loki pulls the drawstrings tight on his pouch and places it by his hip before glaring up at the other. 

‘Do you always fixate on the concepts of lovers?’ 

‘No, but you brought it up the first time, if I recall,’ smirks the warrior. 

‘I did not realize it stuck so.’ 

Thor shifts upright, tilting his head. ‘You are celibate, aren’t you? Since you are a priest.’ 

Loki does not deign to give an answer. ‘Do you leave soon again?’ 

The other decides to humour him. ‘Yes, in a few days. Agamemnon will not rest until all of Greece has migrated onto your beaches.’ 

‘He is determined.’ Loki toys with the smaller pouch at his hip, listens to the faint jangle of the necklace. ‘I suppose you run no risk of dying on these runs?’ 

There is a bark of laughter that echoes through the chamber. ‘If farmer boys posed a threat to me, I would not be who I am.’ 

‘True enough.’ 

‘Do you worry each winter?’ 

‘Do not be presumptuous,’ snaps Loki. 

‘It is no weakness to fear for a friend, Loki,’ says Thor patiently. ‘Sentiment is not a fault.’ 

‘Do not _patronize me_ , warrior,’ says the other, voice low. ‘My feelings are for myself. I do not expose my thoughts as you. One day this _will_ hurt you, Thor.’ 

They lapse into silence, Loki glaring at him and Thor matching the gaze evenly. Eventually, Loki huffs, gesturing to stand up, ‘I should leave. Till whenever, blessed warrior.’ 

‘Aye, blessed priest,’ shoots back Thor, watching Loki disappear past the door. 

\- 

Thor does not return in the seventh summer. 

They live amongst the plains of Greece, visit various islands, a veritable armada amasses in their wake. When Thor, Sif, Volstagg and the other companies lead them home during the eighth summer, Agamemnon celebrates with a grand feast, indulging the soldiers. 

The negotiations had ended in the seventh year. Thor will wait till morning to find Loki upon the wall. For now, he enjoys the feasting and celebration. Volstagg drinks to his heart’s content and Sif eats as much as she would please. Thor does both and goes to sleep content. 

The morning comes blearily. The one thing he will remember of Troy will be the sun – pressing against his back and his skin as he walks through the silent camp as all the others are too hung over or sated to be awake this early. 

He makes it to the wall and sits cross legged in the sand, neck tilted upwards to watch the top. No one comes for half an hour and he feels drowsy from the heat. Just when he is about to nod off, a darkly dressed blob appears at the edge. 

Blinking the sweat from his eyes, Thor stands up to get a better vantage point. It is Loki, he knows, and Loki makes no motion. With nothing but a nod from Thor that he is sure the priest has not seen, Thor begins to walk off. When he glances back at the wall a few minutes later, Loki is no longer to be seen, but Thor knows he will come. As always. 

\- 

Loki’s letters detail the negotiations. Though Thor knows it will soon fall out, he can’t help but trace the hint of relief in Loki’s words as they scramble across the page, detailing words and plans and cessations and gains. 

He only finds a few words on himself and they catch him off-guard. 

_Though I am sure you would be awful at politics, it would be a pleasant distraction to have you here._

\- 

‘You’re wearing it – Brisingamen.’ 

Loki seems to cringe at the pleasure behind Thor’s words. ‘I am thankful you are not blind.’ One of his hands flutter up to touch the silver before dropping back to his side. He is dressed in dark blue with a maroon sash, sitting upright on the cushions before Thor. The lantern light glimmers, slides over the pale skin and dark, dark hair and green eyes. 

‘Was two years too long for you that you must feast your gaze on my face for the rest of the night?’ snaps Loki. 

‘Do not be shy,’ laughs Thor, gesturing to the space next to him as he sits down on the cushions. ‘Come.’ 

After lighting the customary incense, Loki arranges himself next to the man, straight backed, a regal neck. He reaches over and takes the pouch from Thor himself, extracting it from the man’s belt without considerable difficulty. Thor lets him and Loki pours the contents directly into his own pouch without inspecting the goods. The priest soon tosses over the empty pouch with his own heap of parchment, and Thor catches it easily. 

‘You do not look anymore?’ 

‘It’s been eight years, what has changed?’ 

Thor fingers the parchment before pulling out his bound journal – ‘ah, you’ve afforded to get one again,’ is the comment – and gives it to the other. ‘It is a bit more wordy.’ 

‘You do not write of me as often as I would have thought,’ muses the priest as he flips through. ‘Has this changed in the last two years?’ 

‘Perhaps. That is for you to conclude,’ replies the other as he flips through Loki’s parchment. ‘And you?’ 

Loki pauses before tucking the journal beside his pouch. ‘I did not notice.’ 

Thor snorts, ‘of course not.’ He falls onto his back, head on a cushion, and nudges at Loki to join him. ‘Lie down, you stiff, celibate priest. I am exhausted, aren’t you?’ 

‘No.’ 

‘Come now,’ urges the other, and finally Loki sighs and relents, laying himself down upon the cushions, an arm under his head as he tilts his gaze towards Thor. 

‘Pleased?’ 

‘Immensely.’ 

‘You are ridiculous,’ mumbles Loki but Thor only laughs. 

‘I force you to do nothing. I only wish for your company.’ 

‘You insinuated much more,’ bites Loki but there is no heat behind it. 

‘Aye,’ admits Thor, ‘I will not disagree. If you find it untoward…’ he trails off. 

There is a moment of silence before Loki breaks it swiftly, ‘how many more kings will you bring to this place? How much longer do you think you all will hold out? Eight years is a long time.’ 

‘I do not feel old just yet,’ remarks the warrior. ‘You have grown sharper, though. Your hair has lengthened since the first time.’ 

‘That is what you note? My hair?’ Loki is muffling his laughter against his knuckles. ‘Are you really a competent strategist with the details you note?’ 

‘I have done well enough. My soldiers are pleased with the fighting and the loot. They hanker for their families. I am lucky to have mine with me.’ 

‘This foolish sentiment, Thor,’ scoffs Loki. 

Thor’s mouth seems to move without his volition: ‘if it is with you, is it still foolish?’ He feels the priest go still beside him and the silence falls into place between them. 

‘I am Trojan, I could hurt you,’ says Loki finally, his words coming slow and careful. 

‘But will you?’ Thor turns his head to look at the other and, almost warily, the priest looks back at him. They watch each other for an indeterminate amount of time. Loki’s gaze is devoid of anything discernible and his body as still as stone. Thor cannot make anything out of it, nor does he try to. He will let Loki come to him out of his volition. He will not force this. 

It is with some conscious effort that Loki turns his head away, looking back at the ceiling of the lower chamber. ‘You are too vulnerable to those whom you love.’ 

Thor can feel the slow crawl of heat reach his neck and tips of his ears. ‘I have not said anything of love, Loki.’ He keeps his voice clear and steady. 

‘True enough. You say nothing,’ and Loki leaves it at that, humming gently under his breath. 

They lapse back into silence and Thor has no urge to break it. He lets his flush recede as the minutes pass and he feels drowsy, the night late and his body tired. ‘Do not fall asleep, you fool,’ he hears Loki murmur to him, a hand on his shoulder, but Thor rolls onto his side, laying an arm over Loki’s chest in retaliation. ‘Quiet, priest. It is the eighth year of this friendship, can I not sleep in your presence?’ 

Loki’s fingers trace up Thor’s forearm and the drowsiness is potent enough that his mouth does not go dry over the warm weight. Finally, the priest settles his palm over the other’s wrist and lets out a loud, audible sigh before his eyes flutter close. 

They sleep like this, and when Thor wakes – luckily still in the night – Loki is gone, but the cushions are still warm and it leaves a pleased clench in his stomach. 

-

It is the next summer that ends up being the last one. It has been a bit more than nine and a half years banked upon these beaches of Troy, facing the blinding white of the sand stone walls that stretch up for metres into the sky. 

Thor brings one last king to the beach. Agamemnon is pleased and asks for nothing more. Thor is invited in the War Council and the plan told to him has only one thing he needs to keep in mind for now – ready the ships. 

\- 

‘Odysseus has been in a flurry,’ comments Sif at dinner three days after the night of their return, popping an olive into her mouth and chewing with apparent pleasure. ‘Fuck, I have missed these things.’ 

Thor snorts, ‘is he not always in a flurry?’ 

‘No, no, Sif is right. Something is different,’ presses Volstagg. ‘There must be a new plan. One we haven’t noticed since we have been busy ferrying things back and forth the goddamn Aegean.’ 

‘You think? All I was told was to ready the ships,’ murmurs Thor, glancing over at the war tent in the centre of the camp. The night fires are lit all around it, casting the canvas into various shades of orange and red, and Thor finds it more than suitable. ‘I shall wait to visit Troy until I have gotten further orders, I think.’ 

‘Forethought, Thor?’ inquires Sif, her voice surprised. 

‘Something about keeping track of politics,’ he counters, grinning. 

\- 

Loki’s letters track the failure of the negotiations. Paris had ruined it all with his presence at one of the meetings, offending Achilles to the point where he forced the political terms were skewed to favour the Greeks in every way. 

The letters end abruptly there, and the last line takes him by surprise: _One last assault is planned. I would be pleased if you did not die._

\- 

The assault comes – the gates opening and Trojan warriors streaming out, led by the glorious first son Hector. Sif leads her bloodthirsty Valkyries into battle, screaming in glee as she slaughters the men around her – body fluid on solid ground from spending so much balancing on her ship in Aegean. 

Volstagg also takes to battle and Thor’s bloodlust consumes him absolutely when he pulls his battleaxe from his belt and slams it into a Trojan skull. He is covered in blood – hot and copious and fueling him further and further, the adrenaline pulsing in him. 

Thor dodges errant blades and spears and kills them all around him – but they are pushed back, further and further. Men die around him, Greek men, men Thor has known and worked with and sailed with, and the Trojans surge against them in waves. 

Until – 

\- 

‘Achilles has deserted us,’ says Agamemnon. ‘He urges the rest of the camp to sail home to Greece. It has been a long nine and half years, I admit, and I shall have you prepare the ships.’ 

\- 

Achilles comes, dressed in armor, bringing in a flank and taking Hector’s army by storm – horses screaming and trampling men, breaking spears, kicking swords. 

The advantage is there – Thor takes it, fighting with more fire than he thought he possessed as Ares’ gift – the bloodlust in his veins – motivates him even more. Sif and Volstagg are also in the clear, swinging their bloodied swords into the men that charge at them – all foe and all for glory. 

The fighting comes to a standstill as an agonized scream rises up in the distance where Thor last saw Achilles. His stomach sinks when he hears subsequent bellows of pain arise in tune with each other. There was only one reason as to why such pain from a group of Achilles’ soldiers would be voiced out. 

Thor coughs, his throat dry, and waits for the signal to retreat. He takes a cursory look around himself and sees how the Greeks have been pushed back to the beaches. It is only a small relief that they haven’t reached the edge entirely. 

‘Hector!’ comes out a yell – and it is from Achilles. The confusion in the soldiers begins to set in. Sif and Volstagg jog up to him, the Trojans around them retreat to the main body of their army. 

‘Hector has killed Patroclus, who was dressed in Achilles’ armor,’ informs Volstagg, out of breath. ‘Achilles calls for vengeance.’ 

‘Achilles will kill Hector,’ says Sif decisively. ‘He is blessed. Hector but a mortal.’ 

‘Aye,’ says Thor and watches at the congregation of soldiers, listens to the yells of the living and dying. 

\- 

Achilles kills Hector and drags his body across the sand, leaving a bloodied streak for all to see. 

It is Polyxena that comes to the camp and begs for her brother’s body back, and Achilles relents to the woman’s tears. 

Hector is burned as is custom. The funeral smoke reaches high into the sky, stinging all the men’s eyes so they weep. 

\- 

It has been ten years and Thor readies the ships. 

Final orders have been given out. 

\- 

‘Only those in the contraption will be present. The others will be in ships at the coast in the west, behind the bluffs. It shall be a false retreat.’ Odysseus’ voice is clear and careful. ‘I will take the captains, Achilles, and second-in-commands for they are the most skilled.’ 

\- 

Thor goes to the wall but no one appears. He retreats to the camp, packs up his things along with Sif and Volstagg and place it in the ships. They sail behind the bluffs. 

Sif places a hand on his shoulder, speaks to him, low and in warning, ‘you have vowed to protect him. You must go to the temple – just _try_.’ 

Thor heads to the temple. 

\- 

The chamber is ablaze in light – ten lanterns for ten years, he supposes, and Loki is sitting upon the cushions, dressed in green robes and a white sash, dozing lightly against the altar before he wakes then the door opens. 

Blinking the sleep from his eyes, his expression transforms into open-mouthed surprise. ‘You should be gone,’ he says, voice hoarse from rest. ‘I saw your ships sail but a few hours before.’ 

‘I should,’ agrees Thor with a strained smile. He kneels in front of Loki, both hands on his knees, and he shakes his head. ‘Why are you here, Loki?’ 

Loki goes quiet. ‘Perhaps I waited for a goodbye, and the rest of your redemption.’ 

‘I have brought no money, no papers – as empty-handed as a beggar,’ says Thor, voice just as low and even. 

‘You have brought yourself, it should be enough,’ says the priest. 

‘I have brought words as well,’ says the other, ‘recall – a decade ago I vowed to protect you.’ 

Loki makes a sound of displeasure. ‘You give your promises too easily. Now that the ships are gone, what is there left to protect me from, dearest warrior?’ 

‘ _Us_.’ Thor fumbles with the words, ‘tomorrow, we will burn this city. We will break the siege. You must believe me. I need you to be safe.’ 

There is a heavy silence between the two of them. Loki drags a hand down his face, face twisted in worry – and Thor is struck by how the other exposes his feelings like this, blatantly as if he is alone. ‘Loki,’ tries Thor, a hand on the man’s shoulder, but Loki shrugs it off. 

‘No. _No_.’ He licks his mouth. ‘How?’ 

‘We will infiltrate the city.’ 

‘ _How_?’ 

‘I cannot tell you.’ 

‘Thor – !’ starts Loki, temper flaring. 

‘I will not protect this city, Loki!’ he counters, loud and quick. ‘I will protect you, but not this city. This war shall come to an end.’ 

‘Through the pillaging and burning of my home,’ says Loki flatly. 

‘Do not say this,’ says Thor, voice desperate now, ‘do not – I would protect you, just as you protected me. You did not protect the rest of the Greeks. Men in my company were slaughtered – but you warned me. _You know this war must end_.’ 

It silences the priest effectively. He glares sullenly at Thor, brow furrowed, and the warrior claps a hand over Loki’s neck, bringing him into a one-armed embrace. ‘I would protect you,’ he murmurs, over and over into the man’s ear, and Loki’s hands come up to cling to Thor’s shoulders as he returns it. 

‘I will come here – during the sacking of my city, I will come here,’ says Loki, voice low and careful. ‘You must go to the palace and get Hogun and Fandral. I know a tunnel out of here.’ 

‘I will.’ 

‘Vow it.’ 

‘I vow to bring your friends here,’ says Thor, pulling back to see the determined look on Loki’s face. The priest frowns, looking at a spot above the man’s shoulders, before he settles his gaze upon the man. 

‘You must also vow one other thing.’ 

‘What is it?’ 

‘You must stay alive, Thor,’ and his voice is deadly serious. Thor’s smile is strained but he tries anyway. 

‘You know I will.’ 

‘ _Vow_ , damn you,’ snarls Loki, hands on Thor’s shoulders, face so close that the green of his eyes are as piercing as those emeralds were on Brisingamen. His face crumples and he surges forward and suddenly Thor can taste the wine, the grapes, the sharp tang of Loki and power. 

He kisses back with as much fierceness, feels Loki’s nails dig into his shoulders as he pressed onto his back against the cushions. The priest’s mouth is hot and fervent, pulling away and scraping his teeth down the length of Thor’s neck. Thor’s breath hitches and suddenly everything is too hot and too visceral. 

‘Loki,’ he gasps as the man unbuckles his belt, peels off his furs, undoes his sandals and leaves him naked and wanting, cock half-hard as Loki presses his mouth against the corner of his hipbone. 

‘I will have you alive, I _will_ ,’ and the possessiveness in his voice makes Thor arch. 

‘You’re wearing too many clothes, priest,’ he says, sitting upright now and his hands catch the hem of Loki’s robes, pulling them off the man. He exposes Loki for what he is – lithe muscle and pale skin. Loki undresses willingly, crawling above the other, his own cock hanging heavy between his thighs. 

Loki’s hands bracket Thor’s head and when he dips his head to kiss him, it feels like a gift, like redemption. Thor presses back, mouth opening up, letting Loki’s tongue skim over his teeth, the roof of his mouth, his own tongue. Loki bites at his lips, makes them swell, and moves downwards to his collarbone, nipping at the skin and scraping his teeth over each inch. 

When the priest’s mouth engulfs his cock, Thor groans, long and low. Loki presses the flat of his tongue against the underside of the man’s prick and sucks, a hand coming up to grasp and the base and stroke. He bobs his head, tongue now moving to flick at the tip and under the ridge, folding the foreskin back and drinking down the precome. 

Thor pants, a hand threaded through Loki’s hair, grasping his head, and begins to roll his hips into the heat, earning a moan from Loki. Yet, only a minute later, Loki pulls off and grabs a lantern from the altar behind him, opening up the side and dipping two of his fingers into the oil. 

‘I _will_ fuck you,’ he says, without inflection or hesitation, and Thor nods, spreading his legs, exposing his slick cock and hole. It breaks Loki’s composure – he groans and presses kisses to the inside of the warrior’s thigh as his fingers, slick with warm oil, press into the man. 

‘Yes, yes, fuck, Loki,’ encourages Thor, who is slowly, carefully finger-fucked by the other. He grows loose and warm around the digits, eyes fluttering closed as his hips move along the rhythm. ‘Come now, don’t you – ah – have a cock you need – hah – to use, you celibate?’ he teases, but his voice breaks over and over as Loki twists his fingers and shoves in just a little harder, a little faster. 

‘You are a _fool_ ,’ is the only reply he receives and he feels the tip of Loki’s cock catch the rim of his hole, making him moan. ‘Thor,’ murmurs Loki, and his hands are braced around Thor’s head, his face buried in the crook of the warrior’s neck as he pushes in, ‘Thor, Thor, _Thor_ – ’ 

Thor‘s not loose enough but the burn of Loki’s cock is worth it. It stretches him, fills him, leaves his mouth undone and his breath gone. He has a hand on Loki’s head, fingers tangled in the dark, dark hair, ‘I have you, got you, Loki, Loki, Loki,’ and Loki shivers before thrusting in once, twice, before he finds a rhythm. 

Loki fucks into him like it’s the only thing he has ever wanted – this has been ten years in the making, knows Thor. He rocks into the body, cock working him open and loose to make Thor arch his back, legs clenched around the priest’s waist. He pants as Loki rocks into him, over and over, his breath hot against Thor’s neck, the muscles of his arms strained around him as he rams into the other. 

‘Have wanted you,’ says Loki into his skin, words pressed tight against him, ‘for so long, Thor, _so long_ , ‘ and suddenly, Loki is sitting upright on his heels, Thor’s legs still wrapped around his waist, and he pounds into the body underneath – hips ruthless as his balls slap noisily against Thor’s skin. 

It is obscene and messy and _divine_ – being fucked like this, nothing like how Thor has experienced sex before. He can feel each inch of Loki’s cock drag in and out of him, leave him a writhing, panting mess as he tilts his hips and asks, wordlessly for more. Loki delivers – he has always – he will not leave Thor wanting – and pulls out, his voice wrecked, ‘your knees, Thor.’ 

Thor flips himself over, face pressed against the cushions as he is filled again from behind and it feels different and the same. He curls his fist around his own cock, jerking off to the punishing rhythm, and Loki groans at the sight. ‘Do not stop, _do not_ – ah – Thor – ’ and Thor is clenching his ass, milking Loki’s cock inside of him, rendering his voice broken for a moment. 

Loki drapes his chest over Thor’s back, his mouth on the back of the man’s neck, ‘come, Thor, blessed warrior, _come_ ,’ he encourages, and Thor knows he smirks when the pace of Thor’s hand on his cock increases, pressing a thumb against the slit, rubbing the precome to smooth the strokes. Thor is panting into the cushions, leaving a wet spot where his mouth is, and he rocks his hips to meet each thrust, making Loki’s fingers on his hips tighten. 

‘And you, priest?’ teases Thor, his voice ruined, and each thrust just becomes that much more exquisite as he bucks back, the slap of skin on skin becoming louder. He twists his hand on his cock, dipping past his balls to rub at his perineum, feeling how stretched he is around Loki’s cock, and it is enough – couple with Loki’s voice, low and rough, ‘ _come all over my cock_ ’ – before he is going boneless, prick spilling semen over the cushions and floor. 

It is not long before Loki must come – the way Thor’s ass clenches and unclenches and he’s moaning, loud and letting Loki fuck him ruthlessly through his orgasm until he’s shivering and done. ‘Got you, Loki, come, I have you,’ says Thor, a hand reaching back and Loki grabs it, tangles his fingers, and slams into once, twice, and comes with a shout, Thor’s name on his tongue. 

He collapses on his side, cock softening and sliding out, and Thor can feel the remnants of come slide down his thigh. It is not a feeling he has ever experienced, but it is not uncomfortable. He curls beside Loki, a hand on the man’s waist as Loki blinks up at him, face still so serious. 

‘I will survive,’ says Thor, ‘and you must as well.’ 

Loki does not reply – not until Thor has wiped down the semen and sweat and dressed in his furs and belts. He stands up, still naked and hair mussed, when Thor begins to leave, and presses his mouth – hot and fierce and memorable – against Thor’s, letting it linger on his lips like a promise. 

‘Tomorrow,’ he says, and Thor nods, tracing his fingers over the thin, long neck. 

‘Tomorrow,’ is Thor’s reply and it is him who walks past the door, climbing up the stairs, disappearing in the dark. 

\- 

The next day, Thor goes alone from his company and enters the contraption – feeling the warmth of the others surrounding him. It is a tight fit. Thor waits, heart hammering in his chest. 

\- 

The gates open, the horse examined, the wood knocked on, claimed a blessing to Apollo, and the Trojan wall encompasses them in her sandstone arms. Thor wants to vomit. 

\- 

It is night. 

Odysseus’ voice: 

‘Take the fire and go.’ 

The horse opens, they stream out – the dozens of them, dressed in fur and armor, swords and axes in hand, torches lit in others. Thor runs into the night – blind, trying to find the palace, spotting it and sprinting desperately towards it. 

\- 

It is chaos. There is screaming. Something is burning. Thor cannot tell. The other gates have been opened by the inside, the ships have sailed back onto the beach, soldiers are streaming into the city – _the siege is broken_. 

He runs into the palace, worry in his throat, and he calls both Hogun’s and Fandral’s names through the walls. The palace is made of gold and marble, the pillars running tall to support a flat roof, and stairs that lead to the main entrance door, which has already been torn aside and is hanging on its hinges. 

The darkness of the hallway embraces him and he walks through the eerie silence, daring to say both Hogun and Fandral’s name once, twice, before a hand grabs his wrist and another clapped over his mouth. 

Thor yells when he hears a voice – familiar. 

‘It is us,’ whispers Hogun into his ear. Both him and Fandral draw him into an alcove and Thor stares at the white of their eyes. 

‘You need to come with me,’ he says hurriedly, ‘Loki waits for you in the temple. He knows an escape route.’ Hogun glances over at Fandral, who nods once, and Hogun nods as well. 

‘Fine. Let’s go.’ 

\- 

The city is on fire – that is the only way to describe it. The houses’ roofs are burning, the men and women and children – tear streaked, blackened with carbon – run frantic through the streets. The Greeks will have their due after ten years. 

The three of them cross the city without incident, dodging past soldiers and civilians alike. Fandral leads them, nimble footed and quick, to a small house at the edge of the wall. It has been sacked – empty – but not burned. 

Fandral kicks aside the few wooden crates that have been half smashed in the corner of the hut. It reveals an entrance with stairs that lead into pitch black. Without a hint of hesitation, Fandral descends and Hogun behind him. Thor readies his battleaxe and goes down. 

The tunnel is empty smells of dirt and the walk is fairly straight, the darkness punctuated by only a torch made from a piece of wood that Fandral picked up from the broken crates. It takes ten minutes, even at their rapid pace, and it is still too much time. 

Finally, there arrive stairs that lead upwards and Fandral climbs them, pushing open the trap door at the top. They emerge into a dusty, dark room filled with nothing but a broken shelf and a half-torn rug. Thor’s soldiers really had looted it thoroughly. 

‘We need to get to the lower chamber,’ says Fandral, beckoning him and they exit the room to a long hallway. Thor curses the temple for the confusion it has caused him and follows the priests and their whispering footsteps. 

Soon enough, they’ve turned enough for Thor to be sure that they have arrive to the lower chamber. Once they reach the stairs that lead down, Thor hears it. Fighting. 

‘Stay here!’ orders Thor roughly to the priests and readies his battle-axe as he quickly descends and bursts through the half-open doors. 

The ten lanterns are burning and Loki – dressed in dark green and white – defends himself against a dozen or more Greek soldiers with a sword and a myriad of cuts on his body. 

Without a moment’s hesitation, Thor’s bloodlust fills him and he roars, striking down one man immediately to his left and turning to bury his axe into the throat of another to his right. Loki shouts something – perhaps a warning – but Thor is busy moving to defend himself from an attacker behind him. 

What he doesn’t expect is the attacker to have a long sword, tall as he is, and when they collide, his battle-axe – old as it is – shatters. With a yell, Thor covers his eyes from any errant shards, the handle now useless without a blade attached to it. 

The man with the longsword comes at him again, but Thor dodges to his side, looking around him for a weapon. It is no use – the dead men are behind the one with the longsword and Loki busies himself with the other attackers. 

‘Get the hammer!’ yells Loki from his right, voice strained and desperate. 

‘I’m not wo – ’ starts Thor, jumping to the side as the longsword whistles downwards. 

‘You are – damnit, you _are_ – ’ and suddenly Loki is bleeding from his forearm, leaving droplets all across the smooth, marble floor. 

Thor dances away from the soldier again and retreats behind Apollo’s statue. The door to the chamber of the hammer is closed and he wrenches it open, stumbling inside, listening to the lumbering steps of the soldier behind him come closer. 

‘I am Thor, Ares’ beloved, Zeus’ champion,’ he says to the air as he grasps the handle, hoping against hope that the gods will hear his voice under this cacophony, ‘and I will claim this hammer – Mjolnir – as my own to protect Apollo’s blessed, Loki, so help me.’ 

Thor clenches his fingers and pulls. 

A god’s voice: _Enough. You’ve done enough. You are worthy._

The hammer lifts. 

\- 

The soldiers are slaughtered with ease. 

Loki is panting and bleeding, and Thor hoists him on his back, leaving the lower chamber entirely and seeing Hogun and Fandral waiting for them at the top of the stairs. 

‘Where shall we go, Loki?’ prompts Hogun, and Loki gives them concise directions to the tunnels. They hurry through the temple once more, a maze of more turns and rooms and corridors until they’re descending stairs again and are in a tunnel once more. 

Hogun and Fandral jog up ahead, and Thor is left with a modicum of privacy with Loki. 

‘They found me with that string from the entrance,’ says Loki, ‘the one I left for you.’ 

‘You will be fine, Loki, you will survive,’ urges Thor, his pace increasing, fingers tight underneath the man’s thighs. 

‘You are worthy, Thor,’ hums Loki in his ear before he finally faints, going limp against Thor’s back, and it takes everything not to sprint through the tunnel then and there. 

\- 

The tunnel exits on a rocky beach side and it is familiar enough to Thor that he leads them around the rising bluffs to his ship, left behind as Sif and Volstagg pulled out their own ships to the front of the Trojan walls. It is empty when they enter it and Thor lays Loki onto a bed in the cabin, lets the priests drink water and eat the salted meat still in storage. 

Come sunrise they will leave this burning city. 

\- 

Come sunrise, Sif and Volstagg along with a few of their soldiers climb onto Thor’s boat and do not question the presence of the three priests in the cabin. They sail the ship towards the rest at the beach. The Trojan gates are spread completely open and remnants of smoke hangs in the air. 

‘Achilles has died,’ murmurs Volstagg sadly, and Thor nods. They stay the night to see his cremation and listeb to Polyxena’s wailing. Priam looks worn out and Agamemnon is victorious. It is a military victory and a political one. 

Thor speaks in low tones with Odysseus and obtains his immediate dismissal from the finished campaign. He receives gold coins, food, water, and fresh furs from the loot gathered of Troy and leaves the place. 

\- 

They sail across the Aegean. 

Loki wakes from his rest, bandaged but healthy, and watches the sight of his burned city disappear in the distance. The blue horizon swallows up the vision until nothing is left but sea and sky melding together. Hogun and Fandral rest with their respective companions and mourn the loss of their home as well. 

‘They will rebuild,’ says Thor, Mjolnir between his feet as he sits in deck beside Loki, whose brow is furrowed, a frown upon his lips. ‘It will take time but they will rebuild and we will return.’ 

‘And till then?’ asks Loki, voice soft. 

‘Homes are not just physical, Loki.’ He pauses. ‘My home is here. Amongst Sif. Volstagg. You.’ 

‘You always came back, year after year,’ muses the priest. 

‘Aye. And you did too.’ 

Loki draws his knees up to his chest, propping his chin on them. ‘Vow to me you will be my home.’ 

‘I vow to be your home,’ replies Thor, a hand on top of Loki’s head, dragging him down to rest his dark hair upon the warrior’s thigh. Loki lies down upon the deck, which rocks gently back and forth, and tangles his fingers with Thor, their palms pressed against Loki’s head. 

‘It is enough. You are enough,’ Loki says, his voice but a whisper on the wind, but Thor hears it anyway and he smiles despite it all. 

\- 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's finished! Thanks so much for leaving such kind comments and messages - they were really encouraging and I hope you enjoyed this fic for all it's worth!


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